


Where I Arise

by MercuryGray



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-06
Updated: 2015-11-06
Packaged: 2018-03-16 15:42:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3493811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MercuryGray/pseuds/MercuryGray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athelstan knows better than most: it is one matter to take prisoners, but another matter to be one. Confined to the local monastery after King Ecbert’s intervention at his crucifixion, our favorite former monk is given time to reflect on what home means, what friendship is and does, and where his heart truly lies. (Extra-canonical to Season Two; Athelstan, various monastic types, Ecbert and the whole West Saxon court. Archive warning given for a brief scene in first chapter and mentioned content in later chapters.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One: Veni, Vidi

_Christ with me, Christ before me, Christ after me,_

_Christ within me, Christ beneath me, Christ above me,_

_Christ at my right hand, Christ at my left hand,_

_Christ in my breadth, Christ in my length, Christ in my height,_

**_Christ where I lie, Christ where I sit, Christ where I arise,_ **

_Christ in the heart of every one who thinks of me,_

_Christ in the mouth of every one who speaks of me,_

_Christ in every eye that sees me, Christ in every ear that hears me._

_Salvation is of the Lord._

_Salvation is of the Lord,_

_Salvation is of the Christ._

_May your salvation Lord, be ever with us._

 

_ \-- from The Lorica (Breastplate) of Saint Patrick, c.433. _

* * *

 

It would have been easier to bury the dead.

 

In this land, the ground was not nearly so hard as it was at home. But Ragnar wouldn’t hear of it, and so several of the raiding party had spent a good bit of time in the wake of the battle with the Saxons chopping wood for fires.

 

These men died well. They deserve respect in death, Ragnar had told him when he asked. And respect, in this instance, meant work, the living paying back the debt they owed the dead.

 

However it might seem otherwise, Athelstan was glad of the work. Work sustained, pain comforted, sweat made him endure. He knew that if he stopped working the terrible reality of this morning would overwhelm him, and that he could not allow. So he felled and chopped and trimmed with the rest of them, dragging the logs that would become the pyres of the day’s dead down to the shore.

 

It was hard work, and it left little time for thinking, save, perhaps, of dinner or the next horn-cup of ale. Still, there were words rattling around inside Athelstan’s head like a handful of the soothsayer’s bone dice, words he had not had cause to hear, use and remember for what seemed like an eternity, and he profoundly wished that they would allow themselves to be thrown, and thus cease their rattling and show his fate.

 

_Hwæt naman hasaþ þisne cynedom?  Þis is Wesseaxe._

Wessex! On the far south of the island of England! It beggared belief -- for Athelstan, anyway -- that they could be so far away from their intended destination. (It amazed him also that, even as Ragnar was lost in the wild seas of the world and unsure how to return home, he still smiled, laughed and praised his gods for his good fortune.) It should have made him happy, that his first raid should not be among the Northumbrians. Yet still his soul was unquiet. His people were far to the north-east, where now they would not be bothered by Ragnar’s war-band, and everyone knew that the Northumbrians and the West-Saxons might as well have been two different breeds of men entirely. At least, that was what Athelstan had been taught before the Vikings took him away, and he learned that there are far greater divides in the world of men.

 

Still, it bothered him a little. Is loyalty due first to your master, or to your kin? Or to your Gods? It was a question often debated at the fireside. Saxon or not, he had killed them today, without question and without hesitation, in the service of his lord.

 

His lord. The word sounded so strange. He fumbled with the arm-ring at his wrist, turning over what it meant in his mind. He had been a slave, a thrall, subject to the whim of his master and the derision of the world, then a freeman, adrift without land of his own or the respect of others, and now he was a thegn, sworn in service to Ragnar, given an arm-ring as a token of his service, and his lord’s trust. How quickly the world changes! Once he had worn other badges of service. But no longer.

 

It was Gyda, all those years ago, who had first noticed that Athelstan no longer said his prayers at dinner. As the rest of the table began to eat, she continued to study him, as had been her wont for so many months, watching as he silently went to work on loading his plate with the rest of the table. He had been so predictable, his prayer so much a part of mealtimes. It had been comforting, in a foreign kind of way. It hurt her a little not to listen to him any longer, and a little of that showed in her eyes. He looked up at her and she quickly turned her face away. He had seen her watching, but her eyes had been too quick to mark the shame in his own.

 

Oh,  precious Gyda. He had felt his faith leaving him before her death, but after it his God had seemed even more remote.

 

No, it had not been a sudden change, the shift in Athelstan’s faith. He had been a boat, tied up at the only dock on the only shore he had ever known, and slowly the boat had drifted away until, looking back, he could no longer see the shore  or the dock from whence he had come. He saw a new shore now – but he did not go forward towards it, either. For all the intervening years, he had remained at sea. Not content, perhaps, but resigned.

 

Athelstan had thought to burn his book and his cross, the last little threads connecting him to home. He’d gone into the woods with his flint and built a little fire there, all by himself, too ashamed to try and do the thing at home, afraid that Ragnar or Bjorn would come and crow their victory over him. It wasn’t a noble thing -- it was a cowardly one.

 

But try as he might, he had not been able to bring himself to throw it into the flames. The gospel writers had seemed to stare at him, even though the book was closed, their colorless eyes asking, as solemnly as judges, _Why have you forsaken us? Why do you abandon our Lord?_

_You knew him,_ he had wanted to say. _I didn’t._ His death meant something to you, but it no longer speaks to me.

 

In the end, he had buried the book and cross, wrapping  them in a piece of oiled cloth, with the ashes of the fire to mark the place. How like a little grave it had looked, the little mound of freshly dug earth on the forest floor. Here lies my former life. Much good it has done me.

 

The book had haunted him another week, and then Ragnar and the rest of his _thegns_ had taken to the sea again, and Athelstan’s thoughts turned to the farm in summer, the pasturing of the cattle in the mountains and the sowing and weeding of the barley, rye, and flax, the drying of the daily catch of fish and whatever fruit the slavewomen of the house found on their collecting trips. By the time the summer days were long and the nights filled with stories around the fireside, the book had left Athelstan’s mind, and that had been an end to it. The boat was still at sea.

 

In truth, he had not thought, in those first years with Ragnar, that he would ever leave Kattegat, except in his shroud, much less see England again. He had put that part of his life behind him, buried it just as he had buried his book and his cross and his daily prayers. His faith was now a thing of shreds and patches. Like a garment past its usefulness, his time in Northumbria, his writing and his books -- all seemed unhelpful at keeping out the cold of life. Yet here he was, returning.

 

_And still my soul is unquiet._

 

“Athelstan.” The Saxon felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see Torstein,, smiling broadly at some unknown joke.

 

“Did the tree say something to offend you?” the older warrior asked merrily. Athelstan looked down and realized that far from stripping the branches from the trunk he’d felled, his axe had instead gouged a series of deep troughs in the trunk, as if, as Torstein said, this was the body of an enemy he was intent on desecrating.

 

“My mind got away from me,” Athelstan said with a shrug.

 

“Good in battle, but less good for felling trees,” the other man observed with a sage smile. “I’ve seen men loose fingers when Odin’s Ravens came upon them while they were chopping wood. The dead have had enough work from us for one day -- there’s food for us back in camp.”

 

Odin’s Ravens -- Thought and Memory. Athelstan’s mind made the leap without thinking. A poet’s trick, long-since learned at the fireside. The wings of the raven or the beating of wings could mean divine inspiration, or heavy thought, depending on the context. Then, also, there was the belief that Odin’s ravens came back to their master to tell him of the slain. To speak of Odin’s Ravens in a battle was to foresee death for the man around whom they flocked.

 

Will there be more talk of Odin’s Ravens tonight? Athelstan wondered. They had not brought a skald, a poet, with them on this trip, at least not one of the formally trained masters of the spoken word that delighted listeners back in Kattegat. There were some among them who liked to turn a phrase every now and then, or sing the old songs everyone knew, but that was not the same as being in the presence of a master.  As a sign of his ability and wealth as a generous host Ragnar had often hosted skalds in Kattegat, knowing that an earl with an open purse is better spoken of than a king with a closed one. And it was working -- there were already many poets sang about him -- today, perhaps, they would add another battle to his long list of victories.

 

Or would they? Ragnar wouldn’t want this victory spoken of -- not a battle in which his slave had saved his life. That was not as honorable as a ready death, or a thrilling, nearly mortal wound. That would have made a better story. But if the poet were writing about Athelstan...No, impossible to think on. Loyalty like that was rewarded on rune-stones, not in songs. Athelstan died here; he was a good servant. When the weapon-weather came, he took a spear for Ragnar. And that would be his legacy. A forgotten stone on a forgotten shore.

 

Enough!  Athelstan reminded himself sternly. Begone, ravens. I want no more of you.

 

He cleaned his axe blade on a tussock and returned it to his belt, following Torstein back to camp.

 

There was a rich repast ready for the men of the war band in camp -- a whole pig stood spitted over the fire, slowly finishing the roast someone had begun this afternoon after they’d returned. It wasn’t usual, this kind of gluttonous abandon with the food supplies. But the town, it appeared, had been most generous with their provisions. They could spare a little for a feast. Wheels of cheese and barrels of ale, long haunches of venison and other game, piled like a giant’s treasure underneath one of the tents. To the men of Kattegat, men who knew what the poets meant when they called winter the long hunger, it was like a pile of gold.

 

Not that they were lacking in gold, either. When they had raided the Minister, Athelstan had gone with Ragnar to the Priory and the Cathedral. The spoils of that trip lay beside Ragnar, gleaming in the firelight, crosses and vestments picked out in gold thread and now- empty reliquaries whose holy bits and bones had been rudely shaken from their insides as trash.  But the raiders of the town had brought back a third kind of treasure, now stationed at the edge of the circle of warriors waiting to hear Ragnar speak -- the remnants of the frightened, shivering inhabitants of the Minister.

 

Athelstan knew Ragnar was not best pleased with this booty. Food they could eat, gold they could sell, but slaves? Vital to life in Kattegat and the north, of that there was no doubt. Without them, cows could not be milked, wheat could not be ground, turf could not be broken. But slaves were expensive chattel, especially so far from home. Slaves had to be watched, guarded, fed, and then packed onto the ships for the journey home, often with some wastage along the way. After constant companionship for the last six years, Athelstan knew his master's moods well enough to know that Ragnar wished that his other warriors had not been quite so judicious with the people of Winchester that had been spared the sword.

 

In truth, though, it was not hard to see that the needs of farming alone was not what had inspired the warriors to take prisoners as they did. A large majority of the new-caught slaves were women. And some among these women were nuns.

 

It was the habit of all Saxon women to wear thier hair covered, and many among the group now lacked their veils, ripped from their heads by suspicious raiders wondering what might lie beneath. No, the difference was their hair. Stripped of their headcoverings, the short, cropped hair of the nuns seemed all the more foreign as they sat among their worldly sisters, one renunciation among many of the vanities of the world. With their long dark robes and scapulars of rough wool, they were almost no different from the monks of his house, though they lacked the tonsure that would have marked them out among the men of the world.

 

And they were terrified, down to a woman. Several of the younger, more comely faces among the women of both town and minister had bruised faces and torn robes, as if they had resisted the advances of their captors and paid for it with whatever beauty they sought not to own to. Hands bound, some of them tried to hide their faces from the prowling faces beyond their wooden stockade without much success. And how some of them trembled to have the eyes of the waiting crowd upon them.  

 

It was not unheard of in Lindisfarne to have children sent as fosterlings and grow up knowing no world but the monastery. For a man, perhaps, that was different, for they often had commerce with the outside world. But Athelstan knew that some women of god had only their sisters for silent company, never knowing what men were like, apart from the priest who came to say their masses and the grim stories of the old nuns, who filled them with visions of demons and hellfire.

 

If that had been his experience of the men of this world, coupled with the terror of seeing those same men pillage his safe little world and brutally rape his friends, he might well be terrified, too.

 

No, he took that back – he had been terrified.

 

Had been terrified -- but no longer. He had looked Death in the face today and he had not wimpered.

 

He had often wondered, sitting in Ragnar's hall, how the poets could speak of the joy of battle, the satisfaction of the crunch of bone and the splash of blood and the last breath leaving the body. In the heat of battle, true, nothing had seemed as the poets said it would -- all was a violent blaze of cuts and parries, with no sound in his head but his heartbeat, and the rage of the gods. And when the battle cleared, and the men of Wessex lay  dead about them -- then his words, his thoughts returned, and he thought he understood a little of what the poets meant by battle-joy. It had never seemed glorious before. But before I was the defeated, and the slain, Athelstan realized. And today I am among the victorious.

 

It had given him uncountable joy to sit with Thorstein and Ragnar and clean his weapons after the day's work, and pass around the whetstone to sharpen them. Even as he chopped trees for the funeral pyres his muscles had ached and sang, still remembering the buffets and blows of shield and spear and axe. After so long, he finally had some sense of belonging, of being inside rather than out. He had not really known he needed such comfort, but after it had passed, he realized how empty and how lonely he had truly been without it.

 

Suddenly, looking at the slaves in their little pen, he was inexpressibly angry. How dare they come here, with their piety and their helpless eyes and their women’s fragile ways and remind him of the pitiful thing he too had been. He was ashamed to be counted in among them and their like. A good for nothing chanter of psalms and lifeless words, that was all he had been. Here he was a trusted man, with responsibility and as much respect as a slave could earn! He had been granted his freedom, given a place among his master's warriors!  And here they were to remind everyone of how hopeless and incompetent he had been, once upon a time.

 

Athelstan turned his back on the slave-pen and focused instead on Ragnar, rising from his seat near the fire.

 

Drinking horn raised, Ragnar waited until the rest of the company quieted so he could speak. "Friends! Today has been a glorious day! We have taken much treasure, and sent many souls to the God of the Christians!" General cheering. "Tonight, we know, many women will be praying to their God because ours were mightier, and prevailed over them!" Louder cheers, and even a few shouted thanks to Thor and Odin. "And thanks to them, we shall eat exceptionally well tonight!" He gestured with an open hand to the barrels of ale and the pig, roasting invitingly over the spit with the flames dancing merrily around it.

 

"We have today lost friends, who died gloriously in pursuit of fame and fortune. The gods say it is right for us to mark their passing, so that in the halls of the slain they will know of their good deaths." Ragnar raised his drinking horn higher, "Hail, the victorious dead!"

 

"Hail!" The men assembled shouted it as one sound, one voice, and Athelstan's heart shook with pride as he, too, drained his horn.

 

"Yet today has not been without gain. Today King Horik's son Erlender bloodied his sword, and shown his worth. He shall be a good son to follow after his father!" The men called loudly for the king's son and his newly won honor, and the teenager ducked under his father's well-meaning clout on the back. "Jothur's son Jarmar, and Kolbien's daughter Valgerd have also taken first blood today. They are worthy members of this company!" More shouts, not as loud as for the king's son, but that was only right.  Their fathers were well-liked.  Ragnar held up his hand once more. "And you all know Athelstan, who came from these shores many years ago as a slave. He has also proved his worth in battle this day, and I have given him his freedom. He has taken his oath, and my arm-ring, and henceforward shall be one of my warriors!”

 

Hearty cheers all around, and horns raised in celebration, and many, many heavy hands patting Athelstan's shoulder in solidarity. Only Floki, across the fire, did not cheer, eyeing the young priest with distaste. No matter -- Floki and Athelstan would never be the best of friends, no matter how much Ragnar wanted them to be.

 

Formalities finished, the men fell upon the glut of food before them with relish, drinking and laughing. Perhaps when everyone was sated there would be time for Mimir’s mead-cup of poetry. Athelstan took the piece of the pig passed to him and bit in with relish, watching the others with satisfaction.

 

Torstein rose from his seat, picking his way among the other men to move close to his lord's side, careful not to spill any of the ale from his horn. "Should Athelstan not have some better reward for his first battle, Earl Ragnar? He was long counted among the women and the children, and today we count him among the men." He met his lord's eye with a mischievous spark.

 

Ragnar's lip curled, and his gaze slid sideways to Athelstan, studying the younger man with calculating eyes. "Wise words, friend Torstein. He is indeed a man -- and should have a man's spoils."

 

The warm glow of the fire and the company fled. Not this again.  It had been a long-standing jape, in Ragnar's house, that Athelstan seemed not to want the bed-company of women -- or of men. Athelstan knew that his master delighted in sending him on errands that would put him in the way of women and sex-- down to the stream to draw water when he knew the maids were bathing, or to fetch a warrior to Ragnar's council who had been away from home and had a pretty wife he missed. He had gone along with it with for years -- what choice does a slave have?

 

In the beginning there had been much blushing, and turning away, but now he considered himself quite immune. There simply hadn't been any time for such things -- and besides, a freeman with no farm of his own was hardly a catch for the local girls. There were quite a few slaves who would have slept with him, freely and gladly, even those who said so in no uncertain terms, but Athelstan didn't -- well, it was hard to explain. Even after being away from the monastery and its disciplines for so long, the iron ring of celibacy seemed the hardest to let go.

 

The joke had been forgotten in recent months, but now, it seemed, Torstein was ready to bring it up again -- and Ragnar was going to oblige him. The Earl rose from his seat, striding over to the wooden pen and studying the faces behind its bars. The eyes of the women followed his with frightened intensity, knowing what was in store for them and wishing all the while that his eye would fall to someone else. He reached through the bars to touch a cheek, or wipe a tear, laughing as they pulled back in fear, tripping over each other to escape his touch.

 

"Priest, come here."

 

Athelstan rose and tried to tie down his distaste. He had learned many things throughout his years with Ragnar, but the one lesson chief among all of them was this: the life of a slave is not his own. He owned no property, held no honor. He could not speak at the Althing, nor give testimony against another man. Nothing of himself was his -- not even his feelings. And that lesson, at least, would serve him well now. "That one," the Earl said, pointing a finger at a housewife of perhaps forty, "Too old. Her own husband wouldn't ride her now unless he was a desperate man. That one -- " a girl of twelve, with eyes that were red and puffy from weeping, "Too young. You'd split her in two, and what  good would she be to you then?"

 

Athelstan tried to follow all of this with a knowledgeable, level gaze, as if he and his lord were discussing the breeding of pigs or goats at a market stall.

 

"But here, now -- here is a woman." Ragnar's finger picked out a woman who looked to be nearer Athelstan's age. She stood with the nuns, but her back was a little straighter, her gaze a little more direct than the rest. And her hair, unlike the rest, was still long, albeit braided back in the manner of a married woman. If she was frightened (If! Fool, they were all frightened.) than she was doing a better job of the others at holding it in. Oh, woman, will you not show your fear? the monk chided silently. You think it will help you, and it won't, this bravery of yours. Ragnar likes a bold woman better than any other. Athelstan knew his lord's moods too well -- the Earl was decided. "What about this one, priest?" Ragnar asked, pointing to the fresh-faced nun.

 

"My lord is most generous."

 

The Earl's smile crackled with mischief, and he gestured for the guard to open up the pen and fetch his chosen one out for him, just as he might choose stock at the market.

 

Once the door was opened, all solidarity broke -- the women with whom she had been standing drew back, afraid the same contagion of a captor's desire might touch them too. But she did not go quietly, as Athelstan had predicted. The woman fought, throwing her shoulders left and right to try and dislodge the heavy hand of the guard, but to no avail. Standing before Ragnar, her arms pinned to her sides, she looked him square in the eye and spat at his feet. Ragnar laughed.

 

"She has a bit of temper in her," he said amiably, as though this were a desirable trait. "You'd have fine children out of such a woman, Athelstan, if you wished."

 

"Surely she might please you more, my lord," Athelstan offered, trying to see if he might still be exempted from this mockery.

 

"It pleases me to see my warriors well-looked after," Ragnar shot back with his trickster’s smile, gesturing for the guard to release her to Athelstan's arms. That itself was not easy -- for a moment, they grappled, but even after a day of heavy sword fighting she was no match for him. Long hours training with the men of the war band meant that even he had a good grip and a strong arm. Behind him, he knew Ragnar was still smiling. "Go plow your field. And -- take my tent to do it," the Earl offered generously, a small concession to his newest thegn's easy embarassment. "I won't be back for a good while yet myself. Perhaps," he added, his blue eyes still sparkling with merriment, “I’ll take a turn myself then.”

 

“'Will you need help sharpening your sword, Athelstan? She doesn't look like she'll do it for you," One of the others joked by the fireside.

 

'It's plenty sharp already, Grein," the Saxon shot back. He'd heard enough randy jokes among the men of Kattegat to fight his own battles there. "And its reach is plenty longer than yours, too," He added with a smile as the campfire roared with laughter. Satisfied that he'd made a decent show of it, he tightened his grip on the woman's arms and marched back to Ragnar's tent, shoving the woman unceremoniously inside and letting the tent flap drop in behind them.

 

The inside of the tent was dark, save for a little of the moonlight coming in at the edges of the tent-walls. The woman was slumped near Ragnar's bedroll and furs,  her eyes dark and determined, her jaw clenched. Athelstan though almost immediately of a snake, waiting to strike.

 

Athelstan, riding on the crest of the bravado brought on by the joking of the others, tried to remember the battle-joy of this morning and send it coursing through his blood, but it was no use. _This isn't you, Athelstan,_ a part of him warned self-righteously. _It is not you now, and it never will be._

 

Athelstan felt the rest of his put-upon bluster leave him, his shoulders slumping and the extra inch of steel in his spine retreating back.  He looked again at the woman, still quivering, and then glanced over his shoulder at the tent flaps. They were expecting -- well, he wasn't sure what, but he was sure that it wasn't going to happen. At least, not tonight. He turned back to the woman and took a step towards her, his hands open to assure her, hopefully, that he meant no harm.

 

“Ne mec ondrǣd. Ic ne þu derda.”

 

She gaped, but did not move. Well, he should have been expecting that. Hadn't Ragnar assured him that he wouldn't hurt him, either? Then, as now, it had been true, but not, perhaps, very reassuring.

 

He decided to try something else. “Hwat is þinne namie?”

 

That question, at least, was safe. If he cared about her name, perhaps she could rest assured he would not try to tear her dress in two.

 

“Godeleve.”

 

“Godeleve. Hit beo gōd namen." It's a good name. He tried to smile reassuringly, but the reassurance did not come. "Min nama is Athelstan. Ic besargie, Godeleve, fore earfoþe se todæg." I am sorry for today's trouble.

 

She regarded him with deep suspicion, trying to riddle out what sort of demon fought with a Viking war band and spoke the language of her fathers as his own. "þu spricst wel Englisc," she said finally. _You speak English well._ It was an accusation and an observation, a phrase hiding another, more important question. What kind of strange creature are you?

 

“Ic wæs geara Angelcynn. Fram Norþhymbraland.”

 

Her eyes went wide.

 

“Then you are not -- not one of them?”

 

 _What a question that is_ , Athelstan mused. _Am I really one of them? What does that mean?_ “Not really,” he decided. “And I won't hurt you.”

 

“Won't you?” she challenged, hackles still up, ready to strike at him with any sudden change.

 

"No," Athelstan reassured her, finally decided. "No, I won't."

 

"Won't your … friends wonder?" She spat the word, _heorðgeneat_ , with deep suspicion, not using the closer word _gehola_ , a friend of a closer kind, or, better still, _frēond_ , the word that meant a lover or one in close affection with speaker.  

 

"I'll tell them what they want to hear. A lie is an easy price to pay. We need only wait a while, and...rearrange...things." Athelstan's voice dropped out, trying to fill in what he really meant. Rearrange the bedroll, her hair, her dress, his tunic, his leggings. Oh, why should his stupid chagrin at matters of the flesh come back now, of all times, when he was trying to play the worldly warrior?

 

A raucous burst of laughter rent the air outside the tent, and suddenly Athelstan heard, as clear as though the man were right beside him, "Should we see how Athelstan fares?"

 

"A silver penny says he can't find the right field!" One of the others shouted merrily.

 

She may not have understood the words outside, but she could follow his face easily enough. The Saxon's eyes followed Athelstan's to the tent flap, his gaze turned towards the voices outside.

 

Before he could even think she had shoved her skirt up around her hips and dragged his body close, letting loose a series, in rhythmic succession, of the little pained animal noises that Athelstan knew all too well from five years of living in close quarters with a man and a woman who were very physical in their affections. Her arms lay pinned between them from when she'd pulled him down to her, her hand on his belt rocking him forward and back against her hips until he realized what she was doing.

 

When Ragnar pulled the tent-flap back, he saw and heard what he was meant to -- a woman's legs spread wide and white, a man's hips thrusting into what sounded like an unwilling victim, arms held close so she could not defend herself. Athelstan's eyes were open, wondering if this madcap pantomime would work, but hers were shut in imagined (was it imagined? It seemed real enough on her face) anguish. Athelstan paused as if he were in mid-stroke, and turned his head slightly to look over his shoulder, but not before Ragnar had dropped the tent-flap back. They heard him chuckle outside, then laugh heartily, returning to the company of the fireside.

 

"Looks like a deep enough furrow!" they heard him say to the others, dwelling in their laughter. "And a good plowman -- she doesn't even fight him!"

 

Athelstan listened to him leave, breath caught in his throat, and then dropped his body away from hers, sighing deeply, his heart pounding. Godeleve sat up a little, pulling her skirt modestly back down while Athelstan averted his eyes. He was ashamed to say that in the rush of playacting he found himself playing his part a little too well, something he was sure she'd noticed. How could she not, with her nakedness...The former monk shook his head a little to clear it. No, he would not think on it. It was not right that he should take advantage so.

 

There had been so little time to think. Suppose Ragnar had wanted to join them? Athelstan knew such things were possible, had even heard it spoken well of by his master. He remembered all too well that night, all those nights ago, when Ragnar and Lagertha had come before him, naked and wanton, eyes gleaming in the dark like the devils of so many sermons, asking him to join them.

 

And he had been tempted. God, had he been tempted.

 

He had not had words for it then, but he had admired them. Not purely in the admiration of the flesh, though that had been a great deal of it. No, he admired that they should be so -- so free. I was taught that the body was a source of fear, and should not be rejoiced in. I was told that all the things my body did were the urges of the devil, and should be purged out, so that all that would remain was saintly and clean. I was taught that nakedness was for the dark, so the mirrors of the eyes of others would not encourage us to vanity.

 

Athelstan the monk would never have let another human, man or woman, see his naked skin by rushlight, nor stripped down to bathe in the river , nor even removed his shirt when the work grew hot after a day's harvesting.  But I have done all these things, Athelstan thought to himself, a hundred times or more, and they trouble me no longer.

 

He had seen the nakedness of others, and they had seen his, too, and it was no longer an embarrassment as it had once been. But with this woman, one of his people who thought as he had once thought, the shame came back as strong as it had ever been.

 

Ragnar had gone, but he would be back -- or he would be expecting a triumphant Athelstan to return to the fire with his chastened prize. Athelstan had no tent of his own to keep her in, no house to return her to where she would be safe from the eyes and desires of others. He wasn't even sure if she had been given as the possession of an hour or a longer span. Though to her he might have had power, among the war-band Athelstan was the lowest, and he was wondering, now, how his hastily spoken words of a moment ago could be true. What protection could he give her? How could he keep his word, and keep her safe?

 

Safety was not here. Safe was --

 

Athelstan looked at the tent flap, and cautiously peeked his head out. The rest of the camp was practically deserted, everyone busy at the main fire with Ragnar and the treasure. He ducked back inside and held out his hand to help her up. She looked at him again with deep suspicion, but did as he bid, pointedly ignoring his hand to rise from the tent floor without his help.

 

Athelstan pulled back the tent flap, and glanced back at the fire, hoping no one would look back at the tent for news of his success. Confident all eyes were turned the other way, he crept out, pulling Godeleve with him.

 

“Follow me, and do exactly as I say,” he ordered quietly.

 

The enthusiastic singing of an old-battle song followed them to the edge of the camp, the wood beyond dim and forboding. Athelstan looked back again, and then searched the darkness for the sentry. None appeared.

 

" Along the river is an easier path, with less bracken underfoot,” he said, still glancing about in case the night’s appointed watchman came by this way. “Go back to your king, if you can find him." She did not seem to believe what she was hearing. “I promised what  I could not give. I can offer you no safety here,” he confessed. “They will be waiting for us, and I do not know what happens after that.”

 

"And my sisters?" Godeleve asked, her own eyes glancing back in the direction of the fire.

 

"I can do nothing. I am not a man of power here."

 

"Or of favor?" _Are you not a man to whom your lord gives slaves and gifts?_ she accused.

 

"That was my master's idea of a joke," Athelstan said, more than a little annoyed. "He will not be so swayed twice. I have his trust, but little else. Now please, go!"

 

She lingered for the barest of moments, weighing the staying and the going against each other, before finally pelting off into the night across the open field, her steps light on the grass and then a little louder once she was in the shelter of the thicket, her dark robe a good cover against the eaves of the woods. A branch broke. _Oh, please stop for a moment, else they’ll hear you and give chase._

 

"What was that?" he heard a sentry ask, some distance away. Athelstan turned, watching the edge of the camp to see if anyone would emerge. The wood gave forth no sounds. Athelstan’s pulse was pounding like a war-drum at his ears. "Probably some animal -- a deer or such," his companion complained. "Leave it till morning."

 

The Saxon sighed. Of the woman there was now no sign. Athelstan studied the line of the trees and wondered, just for a moment, if he had made some mistake in letting her go.   _Never mind that -- she's gone now, and that's an end to it. It’s better for everyone this way._

 

 _Well, perhaps not for me_. They would think him a weak fool, but that was hardly new.

 

He snuck back into Ragnar's tent, looking around for a likely culprit until his hands seized upon a spare stone, half-buried in the turf underneath the tent. If ever I needed a god's help, now would be the time, Athelstan thought to himself. Was there a prayer to summon Loki the Liar? Did one ask the god of mischief for help? Or was he one of those capricious deities whose help or hindrance always came unasked for? _Whatever it is, I need it now,_ the priest said, raising the rock and, closing his eyes, bringing the stone smashing against the side of his forehead.

 

His vision spun, and the rock dropped to the ground, followed quickly by the rest of his body. _Perhaps I should have taken the knife_ , Athelstan mused, feeling the edge of his hair go gummy with blood as his gaze tumbled in and out of focus. But then they would have asked why I didn't cry out.

 

Rising unsteadily to his feet, he gathered himself a minute and then surged out of the tent, stumbling like a drunkard.

 

“Bitch!”

 

The men at the fire turned, wondering what had brought the noise until Athelstan stumbled back into view, head streaming.

 

"She hit me with a stone, and --"  There was blood on his face, running down his cheek and into his eyes and in a minute they were all on their feet, every man full of righteous fury. "Search the camp!" "Find her!"

 

Yet one of the men  stayed back, rising slowly as the rest rushed away. "What a priceless _thegn_ , to let his lord's gifts pass out of his hands so easily," Floki said disdainfully, his gaze dark and malevolent.

 

"It's not Athelstan's fault," Ragnar said quickly. The noise that Floki made in response made it quite clear what the shipbuilder thought of that.

 

Athelstan turned himself unsteadily onto one of the benches by the fire, feeling a little sick. "Perhaps you should have let me have the older one," he confided to Ragnar as Torstein went to look for one of the herb-wives to bind up the cut.

 

Ragnar considered this a moment, his grin unchanging. "I wanted them to see you received what I thought was worthy. A slave gets another man's leavings. A _thegn_ gets what is owed him." He considered all this a moment more. "Still, it is probably better she is gone. She would not have been at rest in Kattegat. She would have been trouble." He looked at his former slave and smiled broadly. "So you have done me a good service twice today, priest!"

 

"I ask not to be rewarded for this one, my lord," Athelstan said sincerely, making Ragnar laugh again.

 

The next day it rained, sheets and sheets of unceasing, cold, bone-chilling rain. The others sang, and drank, and availed themselves of the other women they had captured. A month, a week, even a day ago Athelstan would have watched it all with indifference, but not today. Today his mind was far away, wondering where the woman Godeleve had gone, and if she really had made it home.

 

 _One good deed matters little against a host of bad ones_ , his mind echoed bitterly back. _They will never take you back, Athelstan. They will never stop hating you. And you will never have a safe place among these pagans, either. It were better if you had never spoken to Ragnar, if you had drowned, if you had taken a spear in your side, than to continue as you now are. For when you die, all punishments of God's angels will come down upon, and you will have no peace, even in death._ The dice were rattling in his head again, this time carrying with them words of the bishop that Ragnar and the others had killed for sport in the Priory church.

 

_We will catch you and crucify you - for an apostate is the lowest and the vilest of all creatures in the eyes of God!_

 

Was he truly low and vile? He conducted himself as a good man among the Northmen -- he obeyed his lord, went about his work without complaint, gave thanks for his blessings, moderated his behavior towards those lower than him and gave respect towards those above him -- Christian virtues, all. He had even tried to save the bishop, though his words and warnings had come too late. Did that count for nothing, either?

 

_You let your brothers die. You told the Northmen where the treasures of God could be found so more could be slain. You killed innocent men, and allowed the rape of innocent women. Who would count you among the virtuous, Athelstan the Faithless?_

 

Was there not a place for the virtuous pagans even in hell?

 

 _There is a way you could know,_ the bitter little part of his mind mocked. Athelstan looked around at the singing war-band and glanced out into the rain at Ragnar's tent. Inside, he knew, were more of the treasures of the church, and among them, meant for the fire, was a copy of the Gospels.

 

And suddenly Athelstan had a strong desire to read them.

 

Among all the tales told by Ragnar and his people there were stories good for laughing, or for feeling brave, or for a good lesson on the trickery of men and magic. But none of those things would help him now. In the monastery, all that time ago, he had loved the Gospels. The Psalms were good for poetry, and the writers of Genesis and Deuteronomy good for great epics, but for comfort, for hope, for reassurance, none could match the Gospel-writers.

 

And Athelstan needed all of those things, more than anything else in the world, as he had not needed them in a long, long time.

 

He had never unburied his own copy of Saint John’s gospels from its grave in the woods -- he did not think that even now he could remember where it was. Long gone to worms, probably. But then, he had not needed them before as he did now.

 

Tripping over his feet a little (the ale was strong in this part of England, truly!) he slipped inside Ragnar's tent, sitting down heavily next to his own bedroll, and rummaging for a moment in the pile of spoils next to his lord's possessions. He didn't even think Ragnar knew it was there, and he wanted to keep it that way. But now, just now, he wanted to read it, feel its pages, find some small bit of reassurance that he was not totally lost in the world.

 

He let the book fall open on his lap and read the passage there. Matthew. A good source for parables, he remembered, the little lessons of the Lord. On the facing page there was an image, of Jesus, seated on the Throne of Heaven, his hand raised in benediction as before him milled a great crowd of people, kneeling down in supplication.

 

_When the Son of Man comes in his glory, and all the angels with him, then he will sit on his glorious throne. Before him will be gathered all the nations, and he will separate them one from another as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats._

 

Like a thunderbolt, the story came back to him, washing over him like a great wave and sounding in his head with all the deep tone and gravitas of the war-horn and the battle-drum. _"And the King will answer them, ‘Truly, I say to you, as you did it to one of the least of these my brethren, you did it to me.’ Then he will say to those at his left hand, ‘Depart from me, you cursed, into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels... And they will go away into eternal punishment, but the righteous into eternal life.'"_

 

Suddenly, it seemed to him that the illumination of the Gospel page was alive with movement, the arms of the king gesturing to the left and the right, the little hordes of people moving before him as he pronounced his judgements upon them, wailing in agony as their deeds were laid before them. Then, just as suddenly, the eyes of the picture turned on Athelstan, and the image held its arms out, as if pleading with him, Why have you abandoned me? Then the page began to well up with blood, great gouts of liquid pouring from the hands and the side of the Son of God, and Athelstan cast the book out of his hands, trying to wash away the blood.

 

The image passed -- the book lay on the ground, undamaged and unstained. Athelstan's hands, too, were clean. Outside, the rain continued, unhindered, on the roof of the tent.

 

 _What madness is this?_ Athelstan begged, tears biting at his eyes. God, can I not have some kind of peace?

 

Thunder rumbled overhead, and Athelstan, truly not knowing which God of his had answered, ducked back out into the pouring rain, as miserable as ever.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hwæt!
> 
> I wish I could have started the chapter the same way the author of Beowulf begins his text, with the invocation to listen, but it didn't fit the tone. So we'll save it for the author's notes.
> 
> A friend of mine asked me recently if I'd watched Vikings, since she'd recently finished the second season and she thought I'd enjoy it. I had watched the first season, loved it, and hadn't made time time to watch the second and third seasons. Anyway, in the midst of our discussions about the show, and the characters, she asked if I'd consider writing a fanfic for it. So I have.
> 
> Full disclaimers: I have not at any point in time taken a class on Old English grammar or early church theology. Any errors regarding those subjects are mine entirely. Due consideration has been given to Anglo-Saxon royal politics, the roles of women, monastic practice, Carolingian feudal policy, and a number of other issues, and I've tried to do them all justice.
> 
> I've had a hard time trying to figure out whether to share this story or not, since I'm not sure that it's up to my usual standard and I'm also not sure that anyone will want to read it. I love Vikings because it's a show about a very interesting group of people at a time of interesting cultural synthesis and shift, and I love Athelstan because he's a great way to talk about that shift, and because he's a great way to talk about so many things I love to read about - early monasticism, gender norms, mysticism and prayer. And he's an excuse to do more research. And I do love research.
> 
> So now there is a stack of twelve library books next to my writing desk and a lot of interesting 9th century texts to quote and an estimated fifty pages of story so far. I hope you enjoy it.


	2. Chapter Two: Lama Sabachthani?

Perhaps if he but prayed a little harder, he might find peace.

_Pater noster qui es in coelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum; adveniat regnum tuum, fiat voluntas tua, sicut  in coelo et in terra._

Was it the will of God that he suffer so, or merely the will of men? He hardly knew himself.

When they had captured him, he knew that he would receive some punishment at their hands, and that seemed just to him. After all, he had killed their kinsmen,  ransacked their towns, disturbed thier peace. In the absence of any other scapegoat, he would have to suffer their combined hatred for all the Northmen. A scourging, a branding, broken bones -- all these he might have suffered with good grace. But then they had brought him back to the King's stronghold, and someone produced one of the women of Winchester. "This man, too, was with them," she pronounced. "He spoke our language, and claimed to be one of us." Athelstan heard in her voice echoes of the gospel writers.  But he could not say, as Peter had, Woman, I do not know him. The cock had already crowed for him. He had already denied Christ three times.

So he said nothing in his defense, and they had crucified him, as the bishop had told him they would.

_Panem nostrum quotidianum da nobis hodie, et dimitte nobis debita nostra, sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris._

It had hardly been forgiveness as they wished to be forgiven, but then, his were not ordinary sins. Was that how Christ had felt, before his ending? Feeling the sinews of his hands and feet tearing as he struggled to remain high enough to breathe?

_ et ne nos inducas in tentationem sed libera nos a malo. Amen. _

Jesus had been on the cross six hours when he finally died; Athelstan had been only a quarter of an hour there before the king had ridden by, and ordered that he be cut down. And yet, that quarter of an hour…

 

_ Could you not spend one hour with me? _

 

He had not really followed what had happened next, so fevered was his mind by pain -- the soldiers had gone for a ladder, widening the holes in his hands and feet as they drove the nails back out of the cross. He remembered nothing after that but snatches of voices and shafts of light, and the jolting of cart wheels as they had brought him, mile by rocky mile, back to the house of the King.

 

He remembered waking, dazed and still in pain, inside a dormitory with a vaulted stone roof and a clean smell. His hands and feet burned, and the skin of his face, where not burned by the sun, was covered in dried blood that made it difficult to open his eyes or move his lips to speak.

 

There were two men by his bedside, in monastic brown, and they were talking -- talking about him. Athelstan strained his mind to listen to them.

 

"What shall we do with him, Brother Cendric?"

 

"Leave him," the second said contemptuously. "Let the king tend his wounds, if he wishes him to live. Or his pagan gods, if they can reach him here in God's house."

 

"But surely his wounds..." the first one asked.

 

The second, Cendric, practically growled. "’If a brother who through his own fault leaves the monastery should wish to return, let him first promise full reparation for his having gone away;  and then let him be received in the lowest place, as a test of his humility. Let him lie prostrate before the door of the oratory, saying nothing, at the feet of all as they come out of the oratory.  And let him continue to do this until the Abbot judges that satisfaction has been made.’ That is what the Rule says about apostates. Has he laid at the door of the oratory, Brother Wictred?”

 

"No." Clearly a younger man, the first voice sounded frightened.

 

"Then he has not been received back in, and like the apostate he is, we must deny him. ‘Let none of the brethren join him either for company or for conversation. Let him be alone, abiding in penitential sorrow and pondering that terrible sentence of the Apostle where he says that a man of that kind is handed over for the destruction of the flesh, that the spirit may be saved in the day of the Lord. He shall not be blessed by those who pass by, nor shall the food that is given him be blessed.’ And that is an end to it." Cendric cast one last glance of loathing at Athelstan and returned to the corridor

 

The monk Wictred lingered at the bedside a moment, clearly in distress about leaving the injured man alone. "Wictred!" the older monk called from the hallway. The younger monk dithered a minute more, and then, hastily made the sign of the cross in Athelstan's direction. "Blessed Mary and all the angels have mercy on you, brother," the monk whispered fearfully.

 

Thus they had left him, and thus he had remained, neither sleeping nor waking, neither alive nor dead.

 

_I am poured out like water,_

_and all my bones are out of joint;_

_my heart is like wax,_

_it is melted within my breast._

 

He hardly knew how many days had passed -- he slept and woke and slept again without any knowledge of how much time had passed between the last sleeping and the last waking. His skin burned, and his thoughts no longer made sense or followed any pattern, marked only by strange visions and dancing spirits from realms he could not name.

 

_My strength is dried up like a potsherd,_

_and my tongue cleaves to my jaws;_

_thou dost lay me in the dust of death._

 

Every so often, he stayed awake long enough to mark the passage of another human being in the hallway beyond his room, but there was no strength in his throat left to cry out. He couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten or drunk.

 

_Yea, dogs are round about me;_

_a company of evildoers encircle me;_

_they have pierced my hands and feet—_

_they have numbered all my bones._

 

Once he woke to cool fingers on his face, and if he had still possessed his voice he would have cried out with joy at the feeling, though he could not lift his eyelids to see who it was. Then the fingers left, and the tiny corner of Athelstan’s brain that still lived and breathed  as living men did yearned for them to return. A fierce Valkyrie with eyes of fire circled around his mind, her face calm and terrible to behold, her grip like icicles.

 

_Wounded I hung on a wind-swept gallows_   
_For nine long nights,_   
_Pierced by a spear, pledged to Odin,_   
_offered, myself to myself_   
_The wisest know not from whence spring_   
_The roots of that ancient tree_

_They gave me no bread,_   
_They gave me no mead,_   
_I looked down;_   
_with a loud cry_   
_I took up runes;_   
_from that tree I fell._

Falling, falling, always falling -- that was how Athelstan felt before he awoke. There were voices again -- angry voices, shouting near him. He swallowed, strained to hear. Would they not kill him now and be done?

“Sister, you should not be here!”

 

“This man is dying! Does the King know of it?” A woman? Athelstan’s voices were never women. Were the Valkyries coming to drag his sorry corpse down to Hel in her the frozen underworld? Is that why their touch was like ice?

 

“Until he has atoned, none of my brothers may minister to him. The Rule compels this. He has not made penance.”

 

“He has nearly bled to death and is feverish besides for want of care! He suffers, Brother Cendric! Does not the Rule also say ‘Before all things and above all things, care must be taken of the sick?’”

 

“That only applies to the brothers of the house, and this man is not a brother.”

 

“But he has been! It was said that he was a monk of Lindisfarne who has been long away from his brothers!”

 

“And how has he repaid the sacrifices of his brothers and his Lord! With apostasy!”

 

“Is he not then a guest, Brother Cendric? 'Let all guests who arrive be received like Christ, for He is going to say, ‘I came as a guest, and you received Me.'."

 

“‘But if he is not healed of his wicked ways, according to the Apostle's words ,"Expel the evil one from your midst", and again, "If the faithless one departs, let him depart"  lest one diseased sheep contaminate the whole flock," Cendric quoted back.  "No, Sister, I will not allow his disease among my sheep."

 

"Then let me tend him. I am not one of your sheep, and you need not fear for my well-being when your charges are counted.”

 

“If you must.”

 

Athelstan struggled to open his eyes, his vision dim and fading around the edges. The light in the room was not good, but there was someone beside his bed, someone in the dark robe of a monastic. They were holding something -- a piece of cloth? A shroud! The person lifted it above his head, and Athelstan felt water dripping on his face before the cloth rested on his forehead, cool and compassionate. She was speaking -- what was she saying? Her lips were moving in constant prayer, nearly silent, a litany of devotion as she bathed his head and brushed the blood away from his cracked lips.

 

“St. Genevieve, who knew about hostility and abandonment, pray for us.

St. Genevieve, whose wisdom enlightened the pagans, pray for us.

St. Genevieve, who miraculously nourished the hungry, pray for us.

St. Genevieve, who reconciled sinners with God, pray for us.”

 

A little bit of water dribbled inside his mouth and he would have sworn it was the choicest wine, so wonderful and glorious it seemed to him. He must have made some noise, given some sign, because she abandoned the rest of his face and kept instead the cloth at his lips, little by little bringing water back to the dry waste of his tongue.

 

“St. Genevieve, who brought back to the Church the lost ones, pray for us.

St. Genevieve, who cured the sick, pray for us.

St. Genevieve, who softened the fate of the prisoners, pray for us.  
Saint Leonard and Saint Lucy, pray for us. Saint Veronica and Mary Magdalen, pray for us.”

 

And then he saw her eyes. Deep, familiar brown eyes, eyes that now held no anger, as he had seen them last, but were instead filled with pity and compassion. Athelstan's throat was too parched to speak, but his eyes, rimmed red with blood, were not apparently too weak to weep. What was her name? He could not remember her name. Love. There was some part of her name that sounded like love.

 

She bent her face close to his ear, brushing his hair aside with the greatest care. “I should not have wished this upon you even if I could have dreamt of such a thing.”

 

Godeleve. Her name was Godeleve.

 

And finally, it seemed, he could feel sleep creeping up on him, after days of agony that would not let him rest. The last thing he remembered before sliding into sleep was a strange glow around the woman Godeleve's head as she unbound the cloth from around his feet, whispering all the while some prayer that seemed beyond his understanding, and the distracted image, fluttering before him, of Abraham and the unknown angels feasting before the oaks of Mamre.

 

"We ask you, Master, be our helper and defender. Rescue those of our number in distress; raise up the fallen; assist the needy; heal the sick; turn back those of your people who stray; feed the hungry; release our captives; revive the weak; encourage those who lose heart. Let all the nations realize that you are the only God, that Jesus Christ is your Child, and that we are your people and the sheep of your pasture..."

* * *

 

When he awoke the terrible pain was gone from his feet, and his whole body seemed lighter, cleaner than it had before, his skin cleared of the blood that had soaked and dried his skin.

 

“Oh, good, you’re awake.” Athelstan turned towards the voice to see the woman Godeleve, marking her place in the book she had been reading. “I was afraid you might have decided to stay with the angels.”

 

“How long have I been sleeping?” he asked, groggy and disoriented.

 

“Nearly a full day, but Brother Wictred wasn’t surprised by that -- he said you hadn't slept well since you arrived here. And no wonder -- you were about ready to burn away. Should you like to sit up and take a little water?”

 

Remembering the dryness of his lips, Athelstan nodded, trying to brace his hands against the bedsheets so he might sit up. A bolt of pain shot through both hands as he tried to push himself up.

 

“Easy now -- I’ll lift you,” Godeleve offered, lifting his shoulders with surprising strength and wrapping an arm about his shoulders so he could lean against her. “You should be careful with your hands. I’ll hold the cup for you.”

 

There was little help for the mess they made of the water -- by the end of the exercise, there was more water down Athelstan’s tunic-front than in his mouth, but that could hardly be helped.

 

“Much better,” Godeleve agreed, sitting back in her chair and patting his chin clean with a cloth as though he were a little child and not a grown man. “You look a great deal more alive than you did this time yesterday. A clean mind in a clean body, that is what the ancient philosophers say is best. Well, I cannot speak to your mind, but your body is clean enough. We bathed what we could of you while you were asleep -- and you had sore need of it.”

 

There was a sudden rush of embarrassment, and if it had not hurt his hands, Athelstan might have clutched his covers. He had only just realized that the robe with which they had clothed him after they had dragged him off the cross had been changed for a different linen tunic. “We?”

 

“I convinced Brother Wictred to help me lift you so I could undress you yesterday. Your clothes were in a very sorry state." Athelstan felt his cheeks coloring, and she laughed a little. "Let me assure you, Brother Wictred was most embarrassed on your behalf while it was happening. We might have waited a while until you woke, but you did look so pitiful. And it is nothing I have not seen before,” she added, as if that would have helped.

 

Athelstan tried not to imagine what his body might have betrayed while he was asleep. This woman has helped you, Athelstan! And it is not as though you have not seen her nakedness uninvited, either, the bitter, sensible part of his mind reminded him.  Or did you want to sit here in your own sweat and blood and have your skin rot away? “Thank you,” he said, not wishing to make eye contact.

 

“We've bound the wounds in your feet, but I want to have a second look at your hands. They were clenched tight while you slept, and I did not want to cause you undue pain.”

 

See, she was not without some consideration. Dutifully, Athelstan held out his hands, the bandages still rust-red and musty smelling. "Now, this will hurt," she said, gently peeling back his aching fingers and unwinding the blood-stiffened dressings from the wounds on his hands. He felt the wounds open again, fresh pain parting his palms. For a moment, she paused, and his eyes met hers. She knows. “That was the easy part, I’m afraid.” From a tray at the bedside she produced a pair of fine silver tongs to pull some of the splinters out of the tired, torn flesh. “I don’t want anything to fester inside and stir up another fever...” _Thor for strength and Freya for valor and Baldr for good cheer_ , Athelstan cried inside his head. _Depart from me, oh spirit of pain!_

 

As she probed at the wound and the flesh around it, Athelstan wanted to scream and held the sound inside in agony, his eyes closed as tight as they could possibly go, his jaw clenched until he thought a tooth might shatter. Finally, she dropped the tongs back onto her work-surface. “There, finished. And ‘Not a bone of it shall be broken.’ You're very lucky."   The  nun dipped her rag into the bowl of herbs steaming gently at the bedside, patting the dried blood from around the wounds with care, though no amount of care could save him from the feeling, as the water trickled into the wound, that she was pouring fire through his hands. Eventually, however, the rest of the steeping herbs were packed, carefully, over the front and backside of the wounds and bound in place.

 

"The bones of the hand are tricky to heal,” Godeleve was saying. “Likewise the feet. But they knew what they were about -- hammering through muscle is hard work enough without hitting a bone."

 

Athelstan tried not to wince as he remembered the hammer strokes. “But they will heal?” he asked, pushing past the memory and the ringing sound of hammer-head on nail.

 

“You'll be able to walk, eventually, and to pick things up -- a book, a spade. But not for a while yet.”

 

“And a sword?”

 

Her mouth twisted strangely. "Perhaps a sword. It will be a lot of hard work. The muscles will knit back, and you'll have to re-teach them everything they know -- every line in your palm, every degree of movement. They won't like it, and they won't thank you for it, but it will come."

 

“Why are you helping me?” The question dropped out before he had a chance to think about  it.

 

She looked him square in the eye, her gaze clear and sincere. “Why did you let me go?”

 

For a moment he sat stunned. Why had he done it? Because he was a coward, really. It had been a coward’s act.

 

“It seemed right.” The words sounded wrong, but she smiled a little anyway.

 

“Then that is why I am helping you. Because it seems right. You were kind to me, as much as you could be, and God demands that we love others as they have loved us. Whatever Brother Cendric says otherwise.”

 

A bell tolled, deep in the monastery beyond, and Godeleve sighed. “I should leave -- else I’ll be late for Nones.  I’ll be back when we’re finished, and we’ll see if your stomach can take a little broth.”

 

She rose and left, following several others in the hallway on their way to prayer.

 

_Perhaps I too should pray,_ Athelstan mused. But who to pray to? Saint Genevieve and Saint Veronica, whose intercession had been asked for by Godeleve, or Frigga, who mended all wounds and protected all healers? _Do I pray for me, or for her?_

 

_At least you can give thanks._  The Saxon closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

 

_Whoever listens to a poor, broken servant, thank you for delivering me into the hands of this woman, whose kindness I do not deserve. Of her virtues no man can speak better. Bring upon her every blessing that man can ask for. Reward her good deeds in this world or the next. She has a gracious name, who brings love with her work. I was abandoned…_

 

He heard a voice inside his mind cry out in anguish, speaking in tongues he had only seen written down, words he knew so well they struck him like a spear. _Why have **you** abandoned **me**?_

  
Tears bit at Athelstan’s cheeks. _Will I not find solace even in prayer?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is totally the chapter where I'm afraid I'm going to loose everyone. Call it the suspension bridge of disbelief chapter -- whatever. I promise it gets better. I promise. May I be struck down if I prove a liar.
> 
> Okay, technical notes: Liberal quoting of the Rule of Benedict in this chapter; for those of you unfamiliar with western monastic tradition, the Rule of Benedict is one of the most widely used monastic rules in western civilization, partially owing to a decree by Charlemagne that it should be the standard text on which all monasteries based their governance and practice. (Also, I just like Benedictines in general; I went to a Benedictine college and they are just the most wonderful people.) Plus, the Rule of Benedict is wonderfully specific about the way the monastery is set up and run! Instant story background noise. Most of Cendric's dialogue in this chapter is taken directly from the Rule, which most Benedictines can quote by heart, a practice that will be covered more in the next chapter.
> 
> Also quoted in this chapter: Psalm 22, the Hávamál, the Intercession to Saint Genevieve (highly abridged for relevance) and the Prayer of Saint Clement. Referenced: The Oaks of Mamre are where Abraham, (in Genesis 18) seeing three figures off in the distance, in accordance with the ancient law of hospitality told his wife to prepare a meal, and thus hosted the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. (From this story comes the phrase 'entertaining angels unawares.) It's one of my favorite stories from Genesis, one of my favorite icon subjects, and remarkably fitting for this chapter.
> 
> So, before everyone gets really upset that Athelstan is not in the palace, let me submit: Monasteries in this period (which I am taking to be roughly 805 or thereabouts, since Lindisfarne was sacked in 793, and Ecbert returned from exile around 802) are centers for learning and the only real repositories for knowledge duriong . Medicine is still a mix of religious sentiment and practical knowledge, as demonstrated here by Godeleve's use of herbs and her prayer for the intercession of Saints Genevieve (fever) Leonard (captives) and Lucy (the blind). (Veronica and Mary Magdelen are included for their symbolic meaning as helpers of the crucified Christ: Veronica wiped the face of Jesus on his way to Calvary, and Mary Magdalene, also the patron saint of repentant sinners, was one of the first to see the empty tomb.) Therefore, it makes more sense (to me, anyway) that Ecbert's not going to take him back to the palace to bleed on everything; he's going to drop him with the people who already have all the tools to make him better -- his local monastery, who will of course be more than happy to help out the King because if they do, they'll likely get some nice royal benefices. Besides, it's not like he's a flight risk -- they don't need to lock him up. 
> 
> So, to the monastery he has gone, much to the monastery's dismay -- and so, it seems, has Godeleve. If you're confused by that, so is Athelstan -- she'll explain herself a little bit more in future chapters.
> 
> In case you're wondering what a woman is doing at a monastery, the idea of a double house, a monastery housing both monks and nuns, is a uniquely Anglo-Saxon institution found in many places across England prior to the Norman conquest; the foundation at Winchester was one such house.
> 
> Chapter Title: Abridged quotation from the Gospel of Matthew, one of the last Seven Sayings of Jesus: [My God, my God,] Why have you abandoned me?


	3. Chapter Three: The Fall of a Sparrow

Athelstan could not remember the last time he had truly been lonely.

 

There was little privacy on a farmstead, but still less in an earl’s hall. Everyone, slave or lord, shared the same spaces -- the same tables, same beds, same privies. It was impossible to find a private space indoors when the small army of people who depended upon Ragnar for support (his slaves, yes, but his thegns and body guards and relatives, too) lived and worked in the same hall day in and day out. The idea of being alone, with nothing but your thoughts for company, was a luxury that few could afford.

 

When he’d first arrived at Ragnar’s farm, Athelstan despaired of the loss of his privacy -- or, perhaps more correctly, as he listened for yet another sleepless night to the sounds of Lagertha and Ragnar in their bed, the loss of everyone else’s privacy. Yet now he found he missed the constant companionship offered by a busy family or an important village. In five years he had grown used to it.

 

In contrast, since arriving at the infirmary nearly a week ago he had seen no one save Godeleve. The entire world of the monastery outside his door was foreign to him, kept that way, no doubt, by Brother Cendric’s strictures against fraternizing with him. He knew a little as he listened to Godeleve about the other people living and working in the buildings around him, but he had no faces for their names. There was Brother Cendric, of course-- he was the Dean of  the monks and some-time tutor in the monastery school -- and Brother Wictred, who was the Assistant Infirmarer. He had a superior, Brother Merthwin, but Athelstan had gathered that he was very elderly and had few remaining duties in the Infirmary. There was Brother Aylwin and Sister Rimilde in the kitchens, and Sister Cengifa who might have been the cellerer or the larderer, it was hard to tell which. There were others, too, Sisters Brictrede and Osgyth and Derehild, but Athelstan didn’t know yet what any of them did.

 

His days were very empty -- unlike the rest of the community, who came and went with the bells for the Divine Office, dividing their days between the _ora_ , prayer, and _labora_ , prayer, that the Rule required, Athelstan had nothing save the marking of the changes in the weather outside his window.

 

He had made a careful study of his little cell in his idle hours-- a small room, designed in the same manner as the cells for the brothers in another part of the monastery, about ten feet square. His bed, with its suitably monastic pallet and blankets, stood against the middle of the back wall, so there was room on either side for a caregiver, if anyone besides Godeleve ever decided to come and visit. The doorway to his room looked out into a corridor, and there was also, on the same wall, a small, unglazed window so he might observe the comings and goings of the monks. The corridor was open on one side, in the style of a Roman villa,  to a courtyard garden. There was another window, much smaller than the one into the corridor, covered in oiled parchment in a wooden frame, to provide a little more of the light outside high in the wall above his bed. Add to that a simple table at his bedside for his caretakers’ nostrums and decoctions, with a shelf below, a stool at the foot of his bed for his caregiver’s comfort, and a crucifix on one wall, and the space’s picture was complete.

 

It was, to put it another way, not a room with much distraction in it.

 

It was the window out into the passageway for which he gave the most thanks-- it let him know when it was time for prayer, (a crowd following the bell in the direction of chapel) and promised when Godeleve would be coming back (the same crowd returning). And there was always the garden to watch, though that changed little from day to day. Still, from the window he could watch the shadow of the clouds go by, or the rain come down, or even, if he was very lucky, a few select species of wildlife come and go.

 

“You looked very pensive, just then,” his caregiver observed, coming into the room after morning prayers with another basin of poultice to re-bandage his hands.

 

“I was watching a bird, out in the garden,” Athelstan explained, the bird having long-since fled. It was easier to watch them when the others were at prayer -- the cloister was quieter, and the birds likely to stay longer, when no one else was walking by.

 

“And do you often watch birds, out in the garden?” Godeleve asked, settling down onto the stool at his bedside and unwrapping one of his feet.

 

“There’s very little else for me to do.” He didn’t know why he sounded so...so embarrassed by it. But everyone else had work, and he had none! Even the elderly brothers confined to the infirmary each had some task, however menial! While he, Athelstan, had nothing.

 

“The job of getting well does not fill time very easily, that I will grant you,” Godeleve agreed. “I will ask Brother Hlothere if we can get a book for you to read while the others are at prayer. He certainly cannot refuse a request like that.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“You’re welcome.” Godeleve returned to the unpleasant task of unwrapping Athelstan’s feet again, inspecting his wounds for signs of mortification and re-applying the herbs whose smell he was beginning to know so well.

 

Athelstan stared out the window over her shoulder, trying not to focus on the buzz of pain in his feet, to no avail. His gaze swung restlessly to Godeleve, her expression marked with intensity and focus. She was focused, outwardly, on his feet, but her mind seemed to be another place entirely -- every so often, her mouth would twitch, and slowly, it occurred to Athelstan -- she was nearly grinning. “Why are you smiling?” he asked, sounding more peevish than he meant to.  “It can’t be the smell.”

 

Godeleve seemed to remember where she was and recovered a dignified look, at least for a few moments. “No, your birds only made me think about our reading this morning, from the Gospel of Matthew. It spoke about how God has his eye on every sparrow. ‘ _And not one of them will fall to the ground without your Father’s will. Fear not, therefore; you are of more value than many sparrows.’”_

 

“Do you really believe that? That you’re of more value than many sparrows?”

 

“Don’t you?” It was a simple question, simply asked -- not an accusation, not a condemnation. Just a question.

 

And one for which, it seemed, Athelstan had no answer. His first question had slipped out in a moment of pain, a window of weakness.  “I don’t know what I believe any more,” he replied, truthfully. “I haven’t...haven’t known in a long time.” He didn’t want to look at Godeleve, afraid of what he might see in her eyes.

 

There was a great silence, and then -- “I can believe that.”

 

Athelstan looked up, surprised. _Now, why would she say that?_ he wondered to himself. _What does she know of you? That you were stolen from your home, that you once professed to be a monk but profess no longer, that the world hates you as an apostate, that you have raided with Northmen but do not act as one of them. And what can any of that mean to her?_

 

But the nun had returned to her work, leaving no clues in her expression. She finished with one foot and moved to the other one. “When you dream, what do you see?” she asked, carefully peeling away the second bandage.

 

“What has that to do with anything?”

 

She considered her words carefully here, just as carefully as she was considering the muscles of his feet. “Once, when I was lost, someone told me that your dreams are where your heart truly lives. Where do you go, when you dream?”

 

Athelstan thought a moment, trying to remember the last time he’d had a dream that he remembered.  “I’m always on a boat,” he said finally.

 

“Where’s it going?” Godeleve asked.

 

“I don’t know. I’m just ...there. Alone. Sometimes there’s a storm around me, and sometimes it’s as calm as summer. But it’s always a boat.”

 

The Saxon woman nodded, contemplating his answer for several minutes in silence. “Wiser women than me might have better answers, but I think that means you’re still deciding where home is. Though I can’t imagine,” she added wryly, “that this bears any relation at all.” She glanced around the little cell with jesting eyes.

 

“No, this feels a little more like a prison,” Athelstan said, again almost immediately regretting it. _I should not have said that._ What was it about this woman that stripped him of his ability to lie?

 

She didn’t seem deterred by the truth, glancing around at the room, her gaze lingering on the door and the window with insightful eyes. “That I can also well believe.” Finishing with the second bandage, she tied off her handiwork and rinsed her hands with water from the pitcher at his bedside. “I’ll see what I can do about getting you that book.”

 

“Aren’t you -- aren’t you going to stay?” He knew that she had other obligations, but she usually had an hour to spend with him before the bells called her back to prayer or meals.

 

Godeleve looked suddenly apologetic. “Brother Cendric told Sister Brictrede I could help her in the garden today,” she explained. “ And like a good servant, I must go where I am told.”

 

Athelstan nodded, trying not to look too disappointed. He knew, from many overheard conversations in the corridor, that she was courting serious displeasure from Brother Cendric in helping him. It was only right that she go and do her real work, too.

 

“Of course,” he agreed. “My apologies.”

 

She smiled remorsefully, the silence between them awkward and unsure. For a moment, she looked as though she were trying to think of something to say, but in the end, she thought the better of it, and left without even the courtesy of a good-bye.

 

Why should her leaving bother him? She left every day; that was nothing new. Why should today be different?

 

_What do you believe?_

  
Because her question was still lingering around the corners of his room. _That_ was why he was uneasy.

 

He truly wasn’t sure about the sparrows. He had been a sparrow once, a fallen, suffering, shivering creature, and he found it very hard to believe that God had an eye on him, or a plan for his suffering. Among the Northmen things were simple -- if you were suffering, the gods didn’t like you and you should be sure to offer sacrifices towards their future good graces. Among the Christians, suffering could mean God’s displeasure, or, as in the case of Job, a harbinger of better things to come when the suffering had passed in patient silence. They had been so sure, at Lindisfarne, that the visitation of the Northmen was some divine retribution for the sins of the world, sins that their daily prayers were trying to alleviate. _We can all see the signs. You know as well as we that Judgment Day is at hand. Jeremiah says so! "And on that day, the sun shall be darkened, and the moon shall not give her light, and the stars of heaven shall fall.”_

 

But now it was not so simple as that. He knew, now, because he had watched them, because he had raided with them, that the Vikings went where their ships took them, whether to Northumbria or Wessex, or to some other place entirely, not because of divine intervention but pure human greed. Or curiosity, sometimes, but on the main, for gold and land and everything else that made a treasure horde. Was it God who guided the ships to their divinely intended destination, to visit havoc upon unsuspecting sinners? Or was it Thor, answering the prayers of his people for land and riches and opportunities to kill and find a glorious death in battle? Did one cancel out the other, or did they form a sort of strange divine harmony, resisting and submitting in equal measure?

 

He wasn’t sure he believed, as he was sure Godeleve did, that Saint Guinevere, whose aid she had invoked in the eleventh hour of his fever, had been the cause of his cure or whether her careful care had been the source.  Or was it both, again working together? When Ragnar had been injured, all those years ago at the hands of Earl Haraldson’s men, Floki and Lagertha and the rest prayed to Frigga for healing and help in the healing arts, wanting the magic of the god to guide what their hands already worked at.

 

Did it help at all that the person being worked upon believed in the intercession, too?

 

Around and around the argument spun, wheeling about in Athelstan’s mind as the sun and the stars wheeled in the heavens with the passing of the day. He went to sleep that night hardly knowing which end of the universe was up, and slept very, very poorly on account of it.  So poorly, in fact, that he woke up two or three times during the night (he hadn’t done that in an age, not since he had fallen out of the habit of rising for the night offices) and continued to sleep until well after the sun was up, making him groggy enough that he hardly noticed the commotion building outside in the corridor until it was nearly outside his door.

 

“Sister Godeleve, what is the meaning of this?” an old, thin, reedy voice protested loudly from outside the door. Athelstan shook what little sleep was left out of his eyes and tried to sit up in bed to see what was going on.

 

“Brother Merthwin!”

 

The nearly mythic infirm infirmarer, it seemed, had chosen today to make his appearance. And while Athelstan could hear everything, he was not really sure why the older man was in such a state. “I really cannot allow this!” the older man was saying. “It contravenes all common practices.”

 

“It will be here, and then it will be gone, Brother Merthwin. And I have cleaned the dirt from the wheels and everything. I need only to borrow Brother Wictred for a moment so I may get Athelstan out of bed, and then we will be gone.”

 

Out of bed? Athelstan strained forward in his bed, trying to see what on earth she had brought with her that would cause such a commotion. Wheels? Dirt?

 

“Brother Cendric would not approve!” Brother Merthwin was saying stoutly.

 

“Then it is good Brother Cendric is currently in conference with the Abbot,” Godeleve countered conspiratorially, edging her way down the corridor until she could enter Athelstan’s room. “Good morning, Athelstan. I have brought you a present!”

 

“Is it a book?” Athelstan asked curiously, knowing full well books had neither dirt nor wheels, and were not usually the subject of mid-morning arguments in corridors.

 

Godeleve’s face was flushed with pride. “No, it is even better!”

 

Athelstan tried to peer around her into the corridor until the object that had aroused Brother Merthwin’s ire came into view. “Is that a wheelbarrow?”

 

And so it was. A simple wooden frame, with a middling-size wheel at the front, the kind of handcart usually used for moving weeds or stones. “I was in the garden with Sister Brictrede yesterday,” she explained, obviously noting the look of growing concern on Athelstan’s face, “and we were putting all the weeds in it for the dung heap, and as I was pushing it, I realized it would be just of a size for you.  So today, it is your chariot. Now, put your arm around Brother Wictred's shoulder here, just so, and we will help you out of bed.”

 

The task was easier said than done. Athelstan still could not put any weight on his feet, and after nearly a week in bed, his legs and arms were weak with disuse. Even to stand, just for a moment with most of his weight on Brother Wictred and Godeleve’s shoulders, was painful beyond telling. Yet neither of them let him fall, and eventually he was seated, legs hanging perilously over the front of the barrow, and Godeleve was pushing him down the corridor he had watched for so long.

 

“Where shall we go?” Athelstan asked, torn between clinging to the sides of the barrow and keeping his hands folded in his lap as Godeleve had said he should.

 

“Outside," Godeleve promised with a wide grin.

 

The end of the cloister loomed ahead of them, the light at the end of the tunnel. Then suddenly, they were through it, and It was blinding to behold. After so long inside, Athelstan’s eyes had adjusted to the low light, and he blinked for what seemed like countless minutes until his eyes finally adjusted and he was able to take the day in. And what a day! Hardly a cloud in the sky, a slight breeze and everywhere the smells of summer. Athelstan hadn’t smelled a summer like this since --

 

Well, since he was a child, really. Summers on Lindisfarne and Kattegat had smelled of salt, not earth.

 

“Well, what do you think?” Godeleve asked, still holding the barrow so she wouldn’t dump him out when she set it down.

 

“It's...certainly different,” Athelstan allowed carefully. But inside he was rejoicing.

 

"Yes, well, be happy I didn't get the one Sister Wulftrude uses for the pig shit," Godeleve quipped with a jokester's smile. Athelstan, thinking about how ridiculous he looked sitting at odds in the dirt-cart, further imagined the smell of the alternative and couldn't help but laugh. “See, you would not have laughed a week ago. I am satisfied with that. Shall we go on?”

 

“But where?”

 

“Well, Sister Brictrede wants her barrow back,” Godeleve explained. “So -- the garden it shall have to be.”

 

It would have been a lie to say it was not hard going. The barrow was built for carrying objects that did not mind a little jostling, and Athelstan’s joints, already pulled  tight by his ordeal and now stiff with disuse, did not welcome the sensation of being bustled over the packed earth paths of the monastery grounds. But it was good, so wonderfully, blessedly good, to feel sunshine again. And Godeleve had not tipped him out of the barrow once, despite a few close calls. Indeed, it was nothing short of amazing that she was able to push him as far as she had.

 

Finally, the wattle-walls of the the vegetable plot rose to meet them. And, with them, the distant shadow of the plot’s keeper, shading her eyes against the morning sun to survey her visitors with interest.

 

Godeleve set the back-end of the barrow down as gracefully as she could and rubbed her arms a moment. “Welcome to the garden,” she said, throwing an arm out to indicate the rows and trellises. “Ah, Sister Brictrede! Allow me to introduce my new friend, Athelstan.”

 

“So, this is your lost soul, is it?”Sister Brictrede, a stout woman of fifty or so who looked like she might be able to pound sense into the most insubordinate of men, looked Athelstan over with a wary eye.  “He doesn’t look like much.”

 

_Well, she knows how to put a person in his place_ , Athelstan thought to himself. “He was a monk, before the Vikings took him away from his home monastery,” Godeleve explained. This didn’t seem to help the assessment, but it did have the slim virtue of being true..

 

“Mmm.” the older woman still looked dismissive. “Well, go to the shed and get your tools, girl, and be quick about it.”

 

“Yes, of course, Sister.”

 

Once the younger woman was out of earshot, Sister Brictrede leaned over the barrow, eyes narrowed. ““I’ll tell you now I don’t think much of liars and thieves,” she stated frankly. “Still less of murderers and oathbreakers. Especially those that turn their backs on their own kin.” Athelstan remained silent. _What she says is true, and  I should atone for it._ “But Godeleve -- “ she turned her hawkish glance in the direction of the shed where the tools were kept, “seems to think you are worth redeeming -- though why that is, I shouldn’t know -- and it is for her sake that I’m allowing this. So know this, boy -- set one foot out of line and no one’s good graces will save you from a sound beating. Is that understood?”

 

“Yes, Sister,” Athelstan assured her quickly, before Godeleve returned from the shed. _Though setting any of my feet out of line is a little out of the question at the moment._

 

The older nun gave a brittle smile. “Good.” She turned back to her helper, who was returning with a spade in each hand and a long, wooden-headed rake over her shoulder. “So, are you going to tell me why you felt it necessary to abscond with my wheelbarrow this morning, or shall we play the riddle game about it this afternoon?”

 

“I thought we might bring Athelstan out for a bit of sunshine,” Godeleve explained, setting down her tools and gesturing to where Athelstan was now sitting. “We've had precious few fine days recently -- we should take the blessings God gives us while they remain. He’s not been outside since...he arrived…” She did not add ‘since the Bishop tried to crucify him’, for which Athelstan was most grateful. The less mentioned, the sooner forgotten, he hoped.

 

“Indeed.” The older woman’s narrowed gaze might have scorched earth. “Well, put him in the shade there, so he doesn't burn to a cinder, and we'll see if we can find something for him to do.” she asked, following the pair as Godeleve picked up the handles of the barrow again (Was he really so heavy? He suddenly felt as though he were made of stone, and it embarrassed him.)  “Do you read, boy?” Brictrede asked directly, watching Godeleve manipulate the barrow, and most of Athelstan’s limbs, into the shade of an apple-tree near the edge of the vegetable plot so he wouldn’t catch a sunburn.

 

Athelstan hadn’t been called boy since his days as a novice, but he remembered enough birch rods to sit up smartly and give the answer that was required of him.“The Latin and the Greek, Sister, as well as --”

 

“Saints of Heaven preserve us -- are the heathens stealing scholars now as well as our gold? As if we didn’t have enough problems. English, boy, English!”

 

“Like a native,” Athelstan assured her quickly..

 

“Excellent. I have a commentary on St. John's Gospels here which you can read to us today. You may doubtless also find it very instructive.”

 

“Of course, sister,” the former monk said, taking the book from her with reverent hands.

 

“And mind you don’t dirty it!” Brictrede added waspishly. “Now, Godeleve, we’ll weed those beans today, they’re looking a little starved for sunlight.”

 

There were several gardens throughout the monastery; this was the kitchen garden, responsible for the sustenance of the monastery. The garden outside Athelstan’s window in the Infirmary was the  herb garden, or the simples garden, under the care of Brother Wictred, and another, larger field where the hops for the monastery’s ale were grown, in addition to the fruit trees planted in the graveyard. There was also a garden plot near the Guest House, but that, Godeleve had explained dismissively, had mainly flowers kept for the Abbot’s table and certain high feast days.  But this ground -- this was the lifeblood of the monastery. The beans and peas and onions grown here fed the monks and the nuns, as well as  their guests and dependents. The whole plot was a riot of growth, a very far cry from the vegetable plots that Athelstan remembered and tended in Kattegat. Ragnar was right -- this was good farmland.

 

Regardless of where it was carried out, gardening here was serious business -- and, so it seemed, was reading. This was, Athelstan reminded himself, a Benedictine house, and the written word, and the study thereof, were undertaken by everyone. Not without reason were the words of the Benedictines Work and Prayer -- they were, at times, one and the same. And reading to Sister Brictrede and Godeleve, it turned out, was harder than it had first sounded.

 

When Benedict had set down his rule, he made ample provision for the reading and discussion of the written word, and it showed in the words and thoughts of these two women, who made him stop, frequently, so that they might debate one set of words or another, crossing back and forth between the lives of the saints, the history of the church, the gospels, the psalms, and everything in between.

 

Athelstan had forgotten the richness that lay in reading aloud. It was one matter to listen as a skald told stories of ancient monsters and heroes, and joked with the children as well-meaning Thor bumbled into trouble and quick-witted Loki got him out again, but there was a different joy that came with being the storyteller, feeling the words working inside the heart and the mind like a bellows, the whole body warming with delight as the audience laughed and cried and were consoled.

 

After several hours, they had only progressed through a chapter of the volume on Athelstan’s lap, and the former monk felt as though he, too, had been doing hard manual labor in the bean-rows. A bell in the abbey marked the passing of another hour, and Sister Brictrede went to use the privy, leaving Godeleve to throw herself on the grass next to Athelstan’s barrow and take a drink from the waterskin that Sister Brictrede had brought out that morning.

 

“You read exceptionally well,” she observed, impressed. “Sister Brictrede has not complained once all morning, and that itself is a marvel. I don’t think any of our lectors read half as clearly as you do.”

 

Athelstan smiled and ducked his head. “I was a copyist for many years -- and an illuminator.”

 

Godeleve looked surprised. “Do they have need for such skills among the pagans?”

 

“No. They do not write much -- save their runes, which are reckoned as a form of magic and have great power. But those they generally carve, on stone or in ivory.”

 

Godeleve studied him for a moment, still smiling. “You can tell,” she stated plainly. “That you are a writer. The way you hold the book -- it’s as if it’s a living thing you don’t want to hurt. You have a great reverence for it.”

 

Athelstan closed the commentary around the scrap of ribbon Sister Brictrede had left in the book to mark the place where they had stopped and tried not to be self-conscious about his hands.“I haven’t seen a book in nearly five years,” he admitted.

 

“Five years!” Godeleve was amazed. “You must have been very young when they took you.”

 

“Among their people, I was always counted as the youngest -- because I had less training than any boy among them.”

 

“Why did they keep you?” she asked, moving closer to the side of the wheelbarrow in fascination. “You are not a warrior, or a man of high rank that they could ransom. And, as you have said, they have little use for your skills.”

 

_A good question, that._ And one he had asked himself. He remembered the trickster’s mischief in Ragnar’s eyes. “I spoke their language. Ragnar -- the Earl -- thought it would be useful.” _At least, I think that was part of it. But Ragnar has always thought many things, and does not make all of them known._ “So he kept me as a slave.”

 

Godeleve nodded. “But you are not a slave any longer,” she guessed. At Athelstan’s look of confusion, she tapped her own wrist, and, looking down, he remembered his arm ring.

 

“No,” he remembered. “I am not. This was my first raid with Ragnar -- I saved his life by blocking a blow that would have killed him, so he made me one of his _thegns_ , his sworn soldiers. The arm-ring is a sign of that honor. But I have not been a slave, a true slave, for a long time. A trusted servant, perhaps, even sometimes a friend, but not a slave.”

 

Godeleve took another drink of water, and Athelstan realized, as she nodded silently, that he had been speaking without thinking again. _The arm ring is a sign of honor._ As the gift of a slave-woman, too, would be. _Athelstan, you fool, can you not think before you speak? You are so caught up in your own thoughts you look like you care nothing for the thoughts of others!_

 

Whether or not Godeleve was truly as offended as he supposed was difficult to say -- was her gaze off towards the horizon because she wished to watch something there, or because this talk of slaves and honors had made her uncomfortable? Eventually, she turned, offering him the waterskin with an expressionless face, and, for the first time all morning, he realized how thirsty he had become. He tipped the waterskin skyward with abandon, drinking in great heaving gulps until he realized that more than a little was dribbling down his chin.

 

_And while we must eat daily, we must gratify the body more poorly and sparingly; since we must eat daily for the reason that we must go forward daily, pray daily, toil daily, and read daily._

 

The words of the Rule of Columbanus sprang to his mind without prompt, a sudden flash in the sky of memory. There was an image, there, too, of the novice-master at Lindisfarne and his birch rod, tapping a reminder onto the backs of the overeager boys who had begun wolfing down their food after a particularly long morning  without first saying grace over it. _Waste is a sin, and haste is a sin, boy! What time you have is God’s time and you will spend it with care._

 

Athelstan lowered the skin from his lips, and wiped his chin, handing it back to her so she could stopper it. _Why does all this return and leave me restless?_

 

Godeleve, it seemed, had not noticed his growing concern -- her gaze was fixed, again, across the garden, watching yet another group of birds fly and fall back into the trees on the far side of the enclosure. Athelstan tried to watch them, but his mind wasn’t really in the watching, and instead, his eyes fell back to Godeleve, studying the flock with fascination, ignorant of his unrest. “You know more about God’s eye and the sparrows than I think you realize, Athelstan,” she noted with a grave smile, gaze still occupied with the birds.

 

Athelstan let his silence speak for him, wondering what she could mean, or, indeed, how she could know what he knew and didn’t know about God’s grace. After a while, she glanced at him, realized his suspicion, and elaborated. “How many can say that they were taken as slaves and are now honored free men?” She let the question hang in the air a moment. How many, indeed?  He hadn’t thought of that. “And how many of those few can say they have faced an inglorious death and were spared? Is God’s eye not in that, too?”

 

“I...hadn’t thought of that.”

 

“And,” Godeleve said, rising from her seat underneath the tree as Brictrede returned, “If he hadn’t kept his eye on you, he wouldn’t have been able to do anything for me.”

 

Striding across the garden, he heard her speaking to Brictrede, something about letting his voice rest for the remainder of the day. Her voice was incredibly distant, as though a mile of open ground stood between them, and not only a few feet of dirt. The sunlight suddenly seemed heavy, and Athelstan’s eyes followed the diving and wheeling flock of birds in the far grove of fruit trees, a cloud of movement dipping and skimming into the blue of the sky, guided by an unseen touch in the air.

 

_If he hadn’t kept his eye on you, he wouldn’t have been able to do anything for me._

 

If he hadn’t been stolen from Lindisfarne, he wouldn’t have been enslaved, wouldn’t have been befriended by Ragnar, wouldn’t have earned his trust, wouldn’t have come to Wessex, wouldn’t have been captured, wouldn’t have been crucified.

 

But if he hadn’t been stolen and hadn’t become a slave, he wouldn’t have pitied the woman he’d been given as prize of battle, wouldn’t have let her go free, and wouldn’t have been saved from certain death by the same woman.

 

_Always more questions, and never enough answers,_ Athelstan contemplated bitterly. _Can nothing in this life of mine be plainly understood?_

 

Another quote shimmered on the surface of his mind, this time from Ecclesiastes. _God has made it so, in order that men should fear before him. That which is, already has been; that which is to be, already has been; and God seeks what has been driven away._

 

He watched the birds until the bell called them back inside for the noontime meal, and said nothing to Godeleve as she wheeled him back inside, his thoughts too heavy to put into words.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical notes:
> 
> The Rule of Columbanus, mentioned in one of Athelstan's flashbacks, is one of the many monastic rules in use in Britain, Ireland, and some parts of France during the Dark Ages. It was written by an Irish monk (Columbanus) and is comparatively short. Since the community at Lindisfarne was a product of the Irish-Celtic missionary movement in the 6th and 7th centuries, I thought it would make for a good point of 'culture clash' between the two monasteries. You can read the whole text online. (Rules like this fall out of use after Charlemange's monastic reforms, in which he promoted the use of the Rule of Benedict.)
> 
> This was kind of a filler chapter, but I had a lot of fun writing Sister Brictrede, who looks (in my mind) a lot like Pam Ferris on Call The Midwife.


	4. Chapter 4: A Place Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A monastery's not really an ideal place to hide -- eventually, a person finds out everything about their fellows. Athelstan's circle of acquaintances grows a little wider, and learns something disturbing about someone he thought he knew.

It was easier than Athelstan remembered, falling back into the routine of the monastery. Every day was laid out in perfect pattern, every hour accounted for. _Seven times a day I will praise you,_ Benedict’s Rule stated, and seven times a day the bell in its tower cut through the cloister, calling the brothers and sisters to the oratory.

 

Matins, Prime, Terce, Sext, None, Vespers, Compline, and then bed, to sleep for six or so hours until ready to do it all again. To that add also the Night Offices, the Vigils sung in shifts before Matins, and the daily reading, Oratorio, between Terce and Sext, and the Collatio, the group reading and prayer before Compline, and that was the complete compass of the day.  Athelstan had forgotten how much he had enjoyed the rigorous division of his hours; among the Northmen, who kept no clocks, work started when it was light and finished when it was dark. Yet now even he, too, found himself waking at an hour-past midnight, listening to the choir monks shuffling from their cells to attend Nocturne for an hour.

 

Godeleve brought him his dinner around midday, taking him with her after Nones to whatever work she was assigned that day -- the vegetable garden one day, the monastery orchard the next. She had no one set task, as some of the others did, but rather seemed to be at the disposal of whoever needed a spare set of hands, which, in summer-time, was usually the gardeners.

 

She had not had far to push him today -- Brother Wictred had been called away on business to the king’s house, and he had asked that Godeleve gather some of the herbs he was going to need to replenish his stores upon his return. So Athelstan’s seat was in the simples garden today, watching the bees dart from flower to flower as Godeleve grubbed through the beds looking for weeds and cutting out chamomile, mint and rue.

 

Athelstan loved the simples garden. If Godeleve placed him just right he could smell the herbs as the sun warmed them, a welcome change from the cool, damp scent of his cell. Even if he could only see it out his window it was a comfort to him. The herbs reminded him of Kattegat, and Lagertha’s little kitchen garden on the farm. Good smells, peaceful smells. Sometimes he just sat out in the sun like a cat and napped through the work-hour.

 

He had just closed his eyes when the sound of children’s laughter and the characteristic slap of their sandals on stone broke through the cloister, followed, very quickly, by the children themselves.

 

The school which housed the children was on the other side of the monastery, and the students themselves were rarely seen, except sometimes for morning mass, to protect them from any corrupting influences of the older men of the monastery. Athelstan knew Godeleve sometimes worked with the children, though he wasn’t quite sure where. It was clear, however, that these two knew her -- one called her name very loudly before the other shushed him with a well-timed shove of his elbow, reminding him that they should probably moderate their voices here in the infirmary.

 

“Isn’t it a bit early for you to be out of class, boys?” Godeleve asked, rising from her place in the herb-bed and dusting off her knees.

 

“Brother Adbert let us go when we finished our declensions,” the slightly older boy (he of the punitive elbow) explained, glancing around the garden as though he were looking for something.

 

Godeleve shared a skeptical glance with Athelstan, who tried very hard to keep from laughing. The story didn’t sound very likely to him, either.

 

“Is he here today, Godeleve?” the younger boy asked expectantly, also casting an expectant, unfocused glance around the garden as well.

 

“Is who here, Eadwin?”

 

But Eadwin and the older boy had found what they were looking for -- their bright little eyes had finally spotted Athelstan in the corner, half-hidden by the tall stalks of dill, and they approached, completely ignoring Godeleve, as though the Northumbrian were some rare species of animal that might at any moment flee.

 

"He doesn't look like he has a tail," Cynewulf observed with the unfailing honesty only a child provides.

 

"Cynewulf!" Godeleve exclaimed, her voice as embarrassed and reproachful as if these were her own children.

 

"Hunstan asked Brother Cendric the other day why we weren't allowed in the infirmary and the garden any more and he said it was because there was an apostate here and we weren't to go see him because he was a servant of the devil and he would corrupt us and lead us to wicked things!" Cynewulf explained, as if all this were the most obvious thing in the world, which, to his child's sensibilities, it was.

 

"His feet look normal, too," the other boy, Eadwin said, picking up one of Athelstan's feet experimentally from their perch on the edge of the wheelbarrow, making him wince. "Except they have holes in them."

 

"Whatever made you think he had a tail?" Godeleve asked with little-hidden exasperation.

 

"Don't all devils?" Cynewulf responded.

 

The nun rolled her eyes and sighed heavily. "So, even after you were told it was bad for you, you chose to disobey Brother Cendric and come anyway?"

 

"Well... we wanted to see you." Eadwin said, though his eyes, along with Cynewulf's, were on the ground and the scuffling toes of their sandals. “You haven’t been to the school-room in ages.”

 

"And we thought you could protect us from him. If he was evil," his partner in crime added.

 

"No, he is not evil," Godeleve allowed, ignoring, for the moment, a host of other problems with this whole exchange that Athelstan could see dancing in her eyes. "But it was still very wrong of you to disobey Brother Cendric. And, while we are on the subject of transgressions, our guest has a name, which you should address him by when you are speaking to him, since he is a person, not a demon. Boys, this is Athelstan, and you should greet him properly, since he is also a guest of the house. And he is my friend."

 

For once, the boys did not seem to have a ready answer. "Hello," Cynewulf said, finally, making eye contact with the man  for only the most brief of moments, consumed again, perhaps, with the idea that Brother Cendric might have been right.

 

"Hello," Athelstan said.

 

"Allow me to introduce Cynewulf and Eadwin, two of the boys enrolled in the school here at the Minister. Take care you don’t judge the rest of them based on this pair’s bad manners," she added with reprimand in her voice. The boys looked suitably humbled. " And you should apologize, Eadwin, for hurting him again. We should always treat our brothers and sisters with great care, especially those whom God has tested. You do not like to be ignored by the other brothers or treated like an empty chair in Chapter, do you?" Guilty looks and shaking of heads.

 

"I'm sorry about your foot," Eadwin said, his gregarious nature with Godeleve retreating quickly in the knowledge, now admitted, that this was, in fact, a person, and not an object to be tossed about.

 

"Did it hurt?" Cynewulf asked, genuinely curious as he peered at the heavy wrappings around both of Athelstan's feet, and his hands.

 

"Very much," the former monk acknowledged.

 

"Brother Cendric says that demons can't feel pain," Cynewulf reported matter-of-factly, still studying the wrappings with intense fascination.

 

"Cynewulf..."

 

"So that must mean he's not a demon!" the boy explained with childish exasperation.

 

"I think Brother Cendric needs to stop talking about demoniacs with you and teach you more about your scripture readings," Godeleve opined flatly.

 

"Oh, please don't send us back to Brother Cendric, Godeleve, please! We'll do anything!"

 

"He's got the others cleaning hides today with Brother Tidfrith." Eadwin wrinkled his nose at the imagined smell of the tannery.

 

"You two should know by now what the Rule says about work. What kind of example are you setting for the younger boys?"

 

"But we're not just skiving off -- we'll help you! We'll pull weeds again! Please, Godeleve!" Cynewulf pulled at her sleeve and tried to look pitiful, his eyes wide and his lower lip puffed out. It didn’t have the desired effect; the nun crossed her arms and remained skeptical

 

"And what will you tell Brother Cendric when you come back covered in dirt and not smelling like the tannery?

 

"We'll tell him we worked with Brother Sigeferth in the fields today! He won't know!"

 

Godeleve’s mouth dropped open in surprise and she rolled her eyes. "So you'll disobey him and then you'll lie about it? You're not winning your case here, Cynewulf."

 

"We'll say extra prayers after supper," Eadwin offered quickly.

 

"We'll clean the garderobes for Brother Wictred!" Cynewulf added, earning a look of wide-eyed horror from his companion.

 

"No, we won't!"

 

"Yes, we will," Cynewulf said, staring at his friend with a knowledgeable glare and a gritted smile. For a moment, the two boys negotiated in silent pantomime, their faces more transparent to the two adults than the boys probably realized. Eventually Eadwin's opposition ebbed.

 

"We'll clean the garderobes for Brother Wictred,” he repeated, looking the very picture of defeat.

 

"Very well. That seems penance enough for lying. For now, you'll go pull weeds. Then Brother Wictred has some seeds that need to be ground."

 

"Will you read to us, Godeleve?"

 

"I will not,” she said briskly, unfolding her arms and gathering up her tools from where she’d been kneeling.  “I'm going to pull weeds with you. Athelstan can read to us today." Both boys looked amazed -- not only did the apostate not have a tail or converse in tongues, but he also could read! For a moment,  Athelstan pitied Brother Cendric, who would probably have to do a great deal more explaining to these two from now on. “Now, I know Brother Adbert has you working in the Old Testament now. What book are you reading?”

 

“We’re still in Genesis, since somebody,” Cynewulf turned a dramatic, long-suffering glance at Eadwin, “can’t read as quickly as the rest of us.”

 

“It all looks like squiggles!” Eadwin protested in explanation, though from the look Cynewulf gave him it was a tired excuse.

 

Godeleve rolled her eyes again and left them for a moment, returning from Brother Wictred’s office with a large volume that turned out to be a serviceably bound copy of the Old Testament, or at least its first several books. She opened the book, leafed through a few pages, and handed it to Athelstan. The facing carpet page was a wonderful blend of beasts and flowers, all in one awesome swirl around a great tree, the riot of color and shape practically begging for a reverent touch.

 

 _Yggdrasil,_ Athelstan’s mind supplied, before another part corrected, _Adam and Eve in the garden_.

 

“Where do you want me to start?” he asked, remembering that he was supposed to be reading aloud.

 

Godeleve smiled at a private joke. “In the beginning,” she intoned, and Athelstan’s mind quietly, quickly added in the rest of the first sentence of Genesis, smiling as he joined her recitation, “God created the heavens and the earth. The earth was without form and void, and darkness was upon the face of the deep; and the Spirit of God was moving over the face of the waters. And God said, “Let there be light”; and there was light. And God saw that the light was good; and God separated the light from the darkness…”

 

She let her voice fade out until it was only Athelstan reading aloud, the story of the beginning of the world unfolding in words. He had learned his lessons well during that afternoon with Sister Brictrede -- he read slowly and deliberately, so that both boys could hear him, and allowed plenty of pauses so that Godeleve could interject some piece of wisdom in for them every once in a while.

 

They had just finished the passage casting Adam and Eve out of Eden when Godeleve called for a halt, rising from her own place and stretching her back.

 

“Tell us, Athelstan, what do the North-men say about the creation of men and the ordering of the world? Surely they have some story for it.”

 

Athelstan did a double-take, looking up from the page of neatly copied minuscule script. Does she truly want to know? The expectant, patient, purposeful gaze indicated that she did. Athelstan shifted a little in his seat and considered all the stories he had heard about the beginning of the universe, and it’s end. Where did one even begin?

 

“They say that the whole of creation came into being first as fire and ice and a great featureless dark,” he began. Cynewulf and Eadwin turned, gathering themselves closer to Athelstan. Adam and Eve was old news to them, thrashed into their minds by over-eager schoolmasters. Here was a story they had not heard --  a story, what was more, that had the added allure of the forbidden to it. She has some plan for this, the monk thought to himself. He went on. “Where the fire and the ice met, the water dripped into the dark and created a giant, Ymir, and from his sweat was created a man and a woman, and they became the frost giants, and then a great cow licked another man out of the ice.”

 

“But where did the cow and the man come from?” Cynewulf asked.

 

“The stories never say,” Athelstan offered. “Where do we think God came from?”

 

“God was always!” Eadwin said, proud that he remembered something from all those hours in the schoolroom.

 

“So maybe the cow was always, too,” Athelstan offered evenly.

 

“Let Athelstan finish,” Godeleve reminded gently, going back to pulling weeds.

 

“The man from the ice killed the giant Ymir, and from his blood the man made the sea and the lakes; from his flesh the earth. His hair became the trees; and  his bones became the mountains, and the little bones and the broken bones they made into the pebbles and sands of the beach. Then the man -- well, he was the father of one of thier gods -- walked around and saw two trees, an ash tree and an elm tree, and from those he created the first man and the first woman. And that’s how the world was created.”

 

The boys processed this for a moment. “I like ours better. It makes more sense,” Cynewulf pronounced decidedly. “Doesn’t it, Godeleve?”

 

The nun sat back on her heels, carefully choosing her words. “When you sit in the dark in wintertime, Master Cynewulf, and you don’t see the sun for weeks on end, and finally spring comes and you see plants melt out of the ice, I think  you, too, could begin to believe that a man could come into being that way as well.”

 

It wasn’t the answer the older boy was expecting, and he looked confused by it. “Do you believe that story, Athelstan?” Cynewulf asked expectantly.

 

“I think it makes sense to some and not to others,” Athelstan allowed, neither confirming or denying belief. Cynewulf frowned, but, sensing that he wouldn’t get a different answer out of either of them, let the matter drop.

 

The two boys and Godeleve returned to the weeding, and Athelstan returned to Genesis until the monastery bell signaled the passing of another hour, and the end of the boys’ working period.

 

“Remember about the privy for Brother Wictred,” Godeleve reminded as the boys scampered back to the schoolyard and their own dinner. Eadwin looked as though he was hoping she would have forgotten, but neither boy made any sound of complaint.  

 

Watching a little helplessly from his seat as Godeleve made a final round of the garden and gathered the rest of her weeds into one place, Athelstan asked a question that had been bothering him since he’d told the story of Ymir. “Won't Brother Cendric disapprove of listening to the demonic tales of the Northmen?” I don’t want to get anyone into more trouble, especially two boys who aren’t old enough to know better.

 

“It will help them when they go to take the word of God to the pagans,” Godeleve said with a smile. It took Athelstan a moment to realize that only a part of her was serious. Noticing his confusion, she stopped a moment to give a more serious answer. “How can you tell one man that your god is the True God if you don’t know what he thinks a true god really is?”

 

She’s right, a little voice whispered. Do you remember how foolish you looked when you tried to talk about your crucified Christ? All they saw was a shamed man, a dead man. You never told them that he rose again and defied death.

 

“Aren’t you afraid they’ll tell someone?” Athelstan asked.

 

“Cynewulf's smarter than he seems. He'll remind Eadwin not to tell. They're loyal little things -- if a little misguided sometimes.”

 

“They seem to enjoy spending time with you very much,” he offered, grateful for the change in subject the two boys offered. _How is it that they know you so well?_ he wanted to ask.

 

“They didn’t give me many duties when I first arrived -- I spent a good deal of time listening at the doors of the schoolroom. A curious boy like Cynewulf tends to find things out rather quickly about new people. I wasn’t a stranger very long,” she explained.  "Bede wrote that he thought monks could learn much from the children in their care, because a child ‘does not persist in anger, bears no malice, does not delight in the beauty of women, and says what he thinks.’ Obviously he knew someone very much like Cynewulf. And I might say the same for you," she added. “You were very patient with them today. Not every adult would have answered as many impertinant questions as you did. Were you a novice-master, when you were at Lindisfarne?”

 

How long had it been since someone had asked him about his days in the monastery!  Athelstan shook his head.“No, nothing like that. When Ragnar brought me to Kattegat -- to his home," he clarified, realizing she wouldn't know what or where Kattegat was. "He placed me in charge of his children. Bjorn and Gyda. It made me learn quickly. I hadn't spent much time with children before that."

 

"Well, they were lucky to have you as a nurse,” she repeated.  “Where are they now?”

 

“Bjorn is a man grown. He came with his father to England, this time.”

 

“And ...Getha?” She pronounced the name carefully, tripping over the syllables and smiling apologetically at their dissonance.

 

Athelstan’s face fell, remembering soft, kind eyes and cunning little braids, and then a pale, cold face that would not smile any longer. “Gyda died shortly after I came to Kattegat. Of fever.”

 

For once, ever-smiling Godeleve looked ashamed. “I am sorry.”

 

“She was well-mourned by her father, and went to her death like an earl's daughter should, with much treasure," Athelstan said, using the traditional formula for such things. "She was but twelve," he found himself adding, his throat dry. "An exceptional child."

 

“Do they mourn their children, among the North-men?”

 

“Very much so. They feel the loss of children keenly -- and Ragnar had only the two of them, then. Though he has more now. He married again -- a princess of Gotaland, Aslaug, who has given him two more sons, Ubbe and Hviserik.”

 

“He must have been a kind master,” Godeleve thought aloud.

 

“What?” Athelstan looked at her, frightened and amazed. How can she speak so?

 

“The way you talk about him -- he means a great deal to you. It's in your eyes, and your voice, whenever you say his name.” She looked -- not sad, but sympathetic as she said this. _What would she know about such things?_ Athelstan wondered, and the wondering made him feel even more ashamed.

 

“He has been very kind to me,” he admitted. “More than I’ve deserved.”

 

“I am sure you've deserved all his kindness. Loyalty should be rewarded.”

 

“That's the bell for dinner,” Athelstan said quickly, glad, for once, of the interruption. All this talk of Ragnar and rewards was making him uncomfortable again. “You can come and get me later -- after Vespers. I don't want you to be late.”

 

“Are you sure? The sun will be going down soon -- it may get cold.”

 

“Call it a penance for tempting the young.” _And making you speak well of Ragnar, who would have harmed you if he could and made me do the same._

 

Godeleve’s disapproval was plain, but she said nothing, content to roll her eyes and frown. “I'll be back after supper and Vespers, then,” she promised, gathering her things closer to his cart and dashing off to the refectory, half-way across the compound. Athelstan had genuinely meant well -- being late for dinner would mean bread and water, or even no dinner at all, depending on how the Abbess was feeling -- but he also felt, somehow, that he did deserve this penance, as he had put it.

 

The talk of Ragnar, and of Bjorn and Gyda, had unsettled him again. It had suited him, until now, to let Ragnar remain as Godeleve had seen him, a leader of men, a giver of rings and spoils. But to talk of his daughter, his tiny, wonderful daughter for whom he had mourned as men seldom mourned their daughters -- was it fair to Ragnar, to speak of him that way? Was it fair to Godeleve?

 

But she had asked! Godeleve did not seem to mind talking of Ragnar, and Athelstan’s life in the North -- indeed, some days she welcomed it, encouraging him to talk about the food, or the plants, or his work, or, today, of Ragnar’s family. _How can she be so calm about it? How can she welcome talk of the people who harmed her? And from me?_

 

Athelstan knew, intimately, what the Bible (and, when it came to it, the Rule of Benedict) demanded when it came to love and mercy and humility and obedience to the will of God. But no one was that good, that … divinely inspired! _For I know she hates, or has hated. No one could summon such anger to spit at a King and not hate. And yet she can put all of that away and say that he must have been a good man..._

 

 _Enough!_ he shouted to himself. _If it troubles you so much you should ask her, and not put words into her mouth about it._

 

It was like, he realized, he was re-living those first months at Ragnar’s farm. Every step, every movement he made was measured and questioned and measured again, every word he spoke repeated over and over as he tried to find new meaning in it while still trying to learn if the old meaning had really, truly left. With no friends or companions, he spent more and more of his time inside himself, wrestling with this new person his circumstance had made him. Everything was a source of embarrassment and grief.

 

It had taken a long, long time to tie down the voice of constant questioning and be content to say ‘This is now who I am.’ But here, back among his own people, he found it was returning. _Who do they say I am?_ Athelstan found himself wondering. _A Northman, or a Northumbrian? When they look at me, who do they think they see?_

__  
  


As with many things, the silence offered few answers.

 

It was summer, and that meant there was a fair bit of time between Vespers and the twin services of Collatio and Compline that signaled the very end of the working day, and the beginning of the reverent silence that proceeded sleep. This was usually when Godeleve would have returned to bring him inside, but the rest of the monks were returning, shuffling off to their rooms before Collatio, and Godeleve had not yet made an appearance.

 

Athelstan watched the cloister carefully. “Brother Wictred!” he called out with as loud a whisper as he dared, stopping the man in his tracks for a moment.

 

The younger monk had become one of Godeleve’s best allies, despite Brother Cendric’s harsh reprimands during the first days of Athelstan’s stay in the monastery. But he could usually be relied upon to act kindly towards Athelstan -- and at the very least, answer his questions. Cautiously, the monk looked around the corridor and then, confident no one was looking, quickly stepped into the simples garden.

 

“You don’t happen to know where Sister Godeleve is, do you?” Athelstan asked, keeping his voice low.

 

“Still in chapel,” Wictred assured him.

 

“Still?”

 

Wictred looked surprised that Athelstan seemed confused about this. “She always stays a little longer than the rest of us. She doesn’t want Brother Cendric to think her heart’s not at her prayer.” he added with a little shrug..

 

“And she does this -- often?” How had he not noticed?

 

Wictred nodded. “Ever since she arrived. Brother Cendric doesn’t think much of women or men who enter the monastery later in life, you see. And she hasn’t taken her first vows yet.”

 

Athelstan was stunned by what he was hearing, convinced that somehow Wictred was talking of the wrong woman. “You mean she’s ....not a nun?”

 

Wictred looked over his shoulder, clearly wondering if he should have been telling Athelstan this. “Not ... officially.”

 

“But you all call her Sister!”

 

“I don’t think most of the others know,” Wictred admitted, now seeing the error of his comment and plainly regretting it. “When she came after...after what happened,” he said, lamely leaving a hole in the middle of his narrative where he knew his audience could supply more details than he could, “I heard her talking with Brother Cendric,and with the Abbot, while I was in the Abbot’s garden. She’s not even a novice yet, but they let her stay, on account of…”

 

But Wictred never said what it was on account of, for at that moment the woman herself appeared, walking quickly from the direction of the chapel. “Oh, hello, Brother Wictred,” Godeleve said, joining them out in the garden. “I was just coming to bring Athelstan in for the night. I hadn’t forgotten.”

 

“I’d...better be going,” Wictred said hurriedly, glancing at Athelstan one last time and beating a hasty retreat to his own cell.

 

“Kind of him to stop,” Godeleve commented off-handedly, apparently unconcerned with the young man’s hasty and embarassed exit. “Shall we?” she asked, picking up the handles of the barrow and wheeling Athelstan back inside.

 

The silence offered by the rising twilight was too tempting, the opportunity it offered too easy. “Why are you here?” he asked, breaking the silence that hung around them like a shroud

 

Godeleve looked at him strangely, chuckling a little in confusion. “That’s an odd question,” she responded, helping him back into bed and smoothing out his blankets. “Why are any of us here?”

 

Athelstan fumbled for a polite way to ask what he was really thinking. “Brother Wictred said that you -- that you are not professed yet.”

 

She stopped, her face suddenly stony. “I”m not sure that’s Brother Wictred’s place to be talking about such things,” she said, looking hurt. “But he is correct  --  I haven’t yet taken my first vows.”

 

“Then why are you still here, when you could be...anywhere!”

 

She smiled sadly, ducking her head in embarrassment, as though she didn’t like to talk about such things. “The dissolution of one's monastery does not mean the dissolution of one's commitments. I am living in the cloister here until a different place can be found for me.”

 

“A place...found?” Now Athelstan was truly confused. What house would not be glad of another person who worked as hard as Godeleve did? But Godeleve, he saw, was now truly ill at ease. She would not meet his eyes, and when she spoke, her voice was soft, hoping not to be heard.

 

“The niece of Ecbert cannot go to just any house in Wessex.”

 

He thought he’d misheard her, at first. But no, no, that was what she had said. “His niece?”  Athelstan’s blood was suddenly cold, remembering the face of the man who had watched his ignominy from atop his horse. _Loki Laufeyson, what did I do to deserve this mischief?_

 

“On my mother's side we are kin. His grandfather and hers are the same, though he had several wives over his lifetime. And I was married to one of his ealdormen, Herewald. So he has my keeping in his gift. I think he shall send me to the Abbey of Saint Mary, his half-sister Alburga's house, but nothing has been decided yet. So I am here, for the meanwhile.”

 

But Athelstan wasn’t really listening. His mind was too caught up with what all of this meant. That was why they called her Sister, why Brother Cendric let her persist in nursing Athelstan without reprimand, why even Sister Brictrede, with her iron-banded opinions, had given him a second chance. Because she was the king’s niece, of the royal house and lineage of Wessex.

 

He found only one thought on his tongue. “You should have let me die.”

 

“Why?” Godeleve cried, and her voice was half anger, half agony. “Because you might have sinned against me, and I am the king's kindred, and the king saved you? Ecbert does not know that. He knows only that you have lived among the Northman, and I am sure he has guessed long since that you have sinned among them as well. Does the priest in the confessional ask what tempted you since your last confession? No. He asks only what sins you have committed. And you did not _rape_ me, Athelstan,” Godeleve said through gritted teeth, as though the word pained her. “And no more need be said about it.”

  
If there had been anything else to say, she did not let him say it, fleeing back to the women’s cloister, her footsteps hard and insistent on the stone, leaving him alone, once more, with a deep-seated sorrow that would not let him go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not a resurgence.
> 
> Let me repeat: This is not a resurgence. This is not a comeback, or an new album because the band is finally back together, or the reunion tour. This is not me picking up this story again with joyful hands and diving into the 10th century again. I tried that once. No one got back to me on how I did, so I moved on to other things.
> 
> This is me posting an old chapter of a story no one seemed to like because I liked Eadwin and Cynewulf and I wanted to share them, and it seemed a shame to waste what I'd already written. For all intents and purposes, this story is still on hiatus. But it's No-Shame November, and I'm posting this because I liked it, once upon a time, and I hope someone else does, too.


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